


The INCREDIBLE CASE of the BODY-SWAPPING SERIAL KILLER

by iamsolarflare, ThaneZain



Series: it's a Fallen London/Minecraft Youtube au [4]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Claustrophobia, DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU HAVE PLAYED THROUGH IT/DO NOT CARE ABOUT SPOILERS, MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE JACK-OF-SMILES STORYLINE IN FALLEN LONDON, Major major maJOR spoilers, Minor Body Horror, OH AND KAKUJO IS THERE, Obviously lol, Temporary Character Death, also its mainly season 6 based but only jokes and a few details, also no its not a fuckin serial killer au, blood/gore/injury, cursing, death isn't permanent!!!, despite the name, despite this being a murder mystery au the death is not permanent, individual chapters will have warnings, oh and the hermits have alternate names, possession/altered state of mind(sort of? its weird), serial killing(also obviously), there is a lot of warnings tho bc its a mcfuckin long fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 37,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26640808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamsolarflare/pseuds/iamsolarflare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThaneZain/pseuds/ThaneZain
Summary: In which a MOSTLY-PRIVATE DETECTIVE and his HIRED WRITER hunt down the famed JACK-OF-SMILES, and encounter a LAWLESS LAWMAN, several CATS, a FRAZZLED MAILWOMAN, a DOGGED SEEKER, and THE SUN, among others. Join GRIAN and MUMBO JUMBO as they travel the NEATH to take down the most INFAMOUS SERIAL KILLER of the CENTURY.
Series: it's a Fallen London/Minecraft Youtube au [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717144
Comments: 48
Kudos: 78





	1. In which the esteemed reader learns the language and characters so as to understand the story better

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this fic is so ridiculous it needs a vocabulary list and a cast list. Here we go, folks. Feel free to skip this bit if you're familiar with both Fallen London and Hermitcraft or if you just think this sort of thing is dumb and you want to go in cold. That's also valid.

**VOCABULARY**

**Amanuensis:** Someone hired to write for someone else.  
 **The Bazaar:** A massive structure made of spires covered in sigils that is the center of London life and commerce.  
 **The Black Ribbon:** A club of duelists unafraid to fight to the death, headed by Feducci himself.  
 **Boneshaker:** Slang for velocipede(see below).  
 **The Correspondence:** Sigils in a strange language that can cause adverse effects. Usually combustion-related adverse effects. Mainly used by the Masters of the Bazaar(see below).  
 **The Dawn Machine:** An enormous, mechanical false-star located in the southeast of the Unterzee that can negatively affect the mind.  
 **Devil/Deviless:** One of Hell’s own. Their eyes are yellow-orange and their teeth are sharp. They emanate a certain literal warmth. Be careful around them. They want your soul and they can be quite…persuasive.  
 **Echoes/pence:** The currency of London.  
 **Flit:** A maze of rope bridges and scaffolding above most of London where urchins and crime-lords reside.  
 **Honey mazed:** Absolutely off the shits on prisoner’s honey(see below). Sometimes shortened to mazed.  
 **Lacre:** Neath ‘snow.’ It stinks of ammonia and when it melts it refreezes into black ice. If you look closely you can see tiny fish and crustaceans frozen in it.  
 **Master(of the Bazaar):** A seven foot tall hunched figure that speaks in a high whisper and tends to the Bazaar. Each of them oversee a certain category of commerce and collects taxes. They use the title ‘Mr’ but no one actually thinks they're men. Some notable ones include Mr Veils who deals in textiles and clothing, Mr Spices who deals in honey, dreams, and sweet smokes, and Mr Wines who deals in drinkables. There’s around eleven of them but no one can ever get a comprehensive count.  
 **The Ministry of Public Decency:** Their symbol is a burning book. That should tell you enough about them.   
**Neath:** The massive underground cavern that houses London, the zee, and many other places.  
 **Parabola:** The dream realm. Can be accessed through mirrors.  
 **Prisoner’s honey:** The preferred drug of the Neath, a type of honey that physically transports its user to Parabola.  
 **Ratmas:** A London inside joke and tradition where Londoners send copious amounts of dead rats to each other. What? It’s festive!  
 **The Rings:** London's illegal fighting-rings. Every city's got one. London has three: the Ring of Meat, the Ring of Roses, and the Painted Ring.  
 **The Royal Bethlehem Hotel:** London is a mysterious place. When the terrors and secrets get to be too much for the human mind, they go to the Royal Beth, an elite hotel of unparalleled luxury, a hotel for the mad and nightmare-plagued.   
**Seeker:** Someone pursuing a fruitless quest, Seeking a certain Name. Do not speak of it.  
 **Snuffer:** There are rumors in New Newgate Prison of those that eat candles and change faces…  
 **Sorrow-spider:** A spider the size of a cat that steals sleeping people’s eyes to...well, no one’s seen them actually _eat_ them.  
 **Spider-council:** What happens when sorrow-spiders go bad.  
 **The Surface:** The world above London, the world that still knows the sun. You cannot return if you have died in the Neath.  
 **Taking a trip to the river:** Dying and coming back.  
 **The Tomb-Colonies:** A place where Londoners who have gotten too old and decrepit go to live out the rest of their days, wrapped in bandages like mummies.  
 **Velocipede:** Those weird Victorian bikes. You know the ones. 

**CHARACTERS (in order of appearance)**

**Levi “Mumbo Jumbo” Valentin -** A struggling writer who dabbles in mechanics and the Correspondence.   
**Axel Quail Anderson, “Angry Anderson(Grian)” -** A mostly-private detective.  
 **Doctor “Doc” Maddox -** Co-chancellor of the currency exchange, home doctor, Seeker.  
 **Sirius “Ren” Reynolds -** Friends and housemates with Doc.  
 **Scar Goodman -** A wealthy individual and member of the Corporation of Conventionality(ConCorp). Tends to be the showier member.  
 **Iskall -** A constable who sometimes considers himself outside the law.  
 **Stephanie “Stress” Monroe -** A mailperson who hates the holiday season.  
 **Keralis “Rally” -** A devil. Lives with Braeden.  
 **Braeden “Doubles” Oleander** \- An ex-Seeker.  
 **Claire “False” Simmons -** A popular Ring fighter, also part of the Black Ribbon.  
 **Joseph Hills -** Honestly, who knows what he does with his time. Probably something involving a paper and pen, usually.  
 **Bennet -** A cat.  
 **Diana -** Also a cat.  
 **Macha -** Another cat.  
 **Xavier B. Suma-Voight(Xisuma), The Tortoise Lord -** A crime lord of the Flit with some repute.  
 **Benjamin “Biffa” Falkner -** A Tomb-Colonist assassin for hire.  
 **Cleo Fasse -** A former zailor-turned-mortician. Works as often with the living as she does the dead.  
 **Jonathan “Cocky Jo” Kannon -** Zailor, fighter, adventurer. Underslept and overcoffeed.  
 **Bernard “Cub” Cumberland -** A wealthy individual and member of ConCorp. Works more behind the scenes, directly with the Masters.


	2. In which the story starts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our esteemed protagonists meet each other and one is employed by the other. They go to an acquaintance's place, have a conflict, and take their first case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jangler time! Or, rather, the Jabberwock. No particular warnings.

Mumbo Jumbo wrapped his frock-coat tighter around him against the late November chill. He was making his way down Ladybones Road to the small inn where he was staying, and the dark streets of London were already dusted with a thin layer of lacre. The cold had certainly secured its grip on the city as the Christmas season fast approached, and the wind told of wintry gusts to come. 

“Sir!” a voice suddenly called from behind Mumbo. “Excuse me, sir?” Mumbo turned, puzzled, to see a small blond man chasing after him.

“Are you Levi Valentin?” the man asked when he reached Mumbo, squinting up into his face. 

“Yes, but I go by Mumbo Jumbo,” Mumbo said, nodding politely. “May I ask why you want to know?”

“I have a proposition for you,” the man said, steepling his fingers. “You’re a writer, correct?” Mumbo nodded again. “I’m in need of a scribe of sorts. I’m a private—well, mostly-private investigator, and the number of cases I’ve been receiving hasn’t been quite what I’ve wanted to see. So, I’d like to hire you to record my exploits and publish them in a few journals in order to gain renown for my work.”

Mumbo thought about this. He’d written a few biographical articles in the past in addition to his usual fiction and technology commentary, but he hadn’t ever been hired to do something like this before. Still, it didn’t sound too difficult. It’d be mostly dictation, right? “And what of payment?” he asked. “Some of us need to feed ourselves, you know.”

The other man laughed. “But of course, you shall be paid handsomely! And, should you want, lodgings shall be provided if you are open to having a flatmate. Have no fear, my friend. So, what do you say?”

Mumbo took a breath. He’d been barely squeaking by with what odd jobs he could pick up, and it could be beneficial to his writing and his resumé to gain such an experience. And lodgings included? It was too good of an opportunity to pass up. “I’ll do it,” he said confidently.

The man beamed and seized Mumbo’s hand, pumping it enthusiastically. “Anderson,” he said. “Axel Quail Anderson. Grian, for short. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Mumbo said, startled by how strong Grian’s handshake was. “When shall I start?”

“Why, immediately!” Grian said. “Come along, Mumbo! London awaits!”

“But—my things—” Mumbo gasped out as Grian tugged him along.

Grian shrugged. “I’ll send someone to retrieve them. I was actually on my way to a friend’s house when I came across you. We’ll go meet up with him, sort of as a test run for future exploits. Do you have a pen and paper on you?”

Mumbo patted his breast pocket where he kept a fountain pen and small notepad. He nodded and Grian grinned.

“Perfect. Off we go then!”

Grian was off like a shot, dodging passersby and hansom cabs with little to no respect for them. Mumbo chased after him as quickly as he could, apologizing every time he stepped on someone’s foot or knocked shoulders with a particularly irritable-looking octogenarian. He managed to catch up to Grian as he squinted up at several stately houses, counting the numbers. 

“Doctor Maddox is a home doctor and co-president of the currency exchange. He’s been sending me a few letters lately about an incident a while back and I’ve decided to finally go check it out.” They stopped in front of a tall, dark house that listed slightly to the left, but was still quite handsome in its own right.

Mumbo caught his breath, hand on the brim of his hat to keep it on as Grian strode confidently to the front door and rapped it sharply with his knuckles.

“Ah, Grian!” a dapper man boomed as he threw open the door. “How good of you to come.” The man loomed in the doorway, taller than even Mumbo who often bumped his head on low-hanging light fixtures.

“My pleasure,” Grian said, grinning. “Doc Maddox, meet my new, erm—”

“Amanuensis,” Mumbo supplied helpfully, scrabbling around for his notebook and holding it up. “I write for him. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” the doctor said, engulfing Mumbo’s thin fingers with a clunky, prosthetic bronze hand. “Do come inside, both of you. I’ll inform you of the situation. The dog will take your coats.”

 _The dog?_ Mumbo thought, confused, but he was quickly distracted by how messy the front room was. Papers were strewn about, a few smouldering in the fireplace. Maps and pages of scrawled writing covered the walls, pinned up with tacks strung together by thread. Half-melted candles sat on every available surface and the scent of rancid meat pervaded the room. The chairs and sofa were stained with liquids Mumbo didn’t want to know the origin of.

“I apologize for the mess,” Doc Maddox said, rubbing the back of his neck in an approximation of embarrassment that Mumbo was sure he didn’t actually feel. “Please, sit down.”

“Why, Maddox, it looks like you’re trying to solve a mystery of your own!” Grian said, peering at the papers on the walls as Mumbo tried to find the cleanest spot to sit.

“Of a sort,” Maddox replied carelessly. Dog! Get in here and take my guests’ coats!”

“I’m not a butler!” an annoyed voice called back, and a rakish young man entered the room. “I do have my own business to attend to, you know. Mr Fires isn’t going to protest himself,” he said to Maddox, waving a finger. Still, he snatched Mumbo’s hat and coat from his grip despite his protests and accepted Grian’s proffered jacket. “Reynolds,” the man said wryly. Sirius Reynolds. Ren. Or Dog. Or anything, really, so long as you don’t call me late to dinner!” Grian laughed heartily at the joke and Mumbo forced out an awkward chuckle.

“Thank you, Dog,” Maddox said, shooing the younger man from the room. “Now, to business. As you know, I’m currently one of the few people running the dockside currency exchange. We had a few rostygold statues out front that were stolen during the, ah, conflict a few months ago.”

“Ah!” Grian said, leaning forward attentively. “And you want me to find the thief!”

“Actually, I don’t,” Maddox said with a toothy half-smile. “They were delivered to the steps of the exchange recently with a note I think you might find interesting.” He pulled a folded piece of thick paper out of his pocket and handed it to Grian. “I don’t much particularly care who stole them. I’ve made enough of London angry that it would be searching for a needle in a haystack, and I have no need for a needle at this moment in time. I want you to find who _returned_ them. And, if that’s who took them in the first place, well. That’d be quite the serendipity.”

Grian took the folded note with interest. “Jabbered,’” he read aloud. “That’s it?”

Maddox nodded. “One word. Makes me think of that one crazy fellow who went around leaving those strange notes all that while ago.”

“The Jester?” Grian scoffed. “He’s been gone for a while. Probably got bored and moved on to bigger and better things. Like arson. No, this is someone completely new, either a copycat or someone completely unrelated.”

“Excuse me,” Mumbo said timidly, looking up from his notes. “But I don’t see what the problem is. You have the statues back and no one got hurt, so—”

“My dear fellow, do yourself a favor and stop talking,” Grian said sharply. Mumbo reddened and fell silent. “It’s obvious the man just wants to know who did it and why the statues were returned instead of melting them down and selling them for scrap.”

“I suppose you won’t accept the explanation that they were just doing a good deed,” Mumbo grumbled, crossing his arms in a huff.

Maddox shook his head wryly. “No one does good deeds in London for nothing, least of all for someone—for me. It’s an...occupational hazard, you might say.” He laughed. “Other than the healthcare and currency exchange.”

“And what exactly _is_ th—”

Grian cut Mumbo’s question off. “Were the statues returned with anything other than the note?” he asked loudly, shooting a warning glance at Mumbo.

“Oh, no, no, no, my dear chap,” Maddox said brightly, staring at Mumbo the same way a cat stares at a mouse. “Let the man speak. I’m sure he’s just _aching_ to know the answer.” He swiped his tongue over his lips and Mumbo shrank back in his chair.

“Erm—I—” he spluttered, squirming in his discomfort.

“Take your time,” Maddox said, leaning forwards in expectation. He looked… _hungry._

Grian buried his face in his hands and groaned. “I apologize on his behalf, Doc,” he said, muffled.

“I just…wanted to ask what your occupation was,” Mumbo said in a small voice. “Other than…other than what you do at the currency exchange.”

Maddox grinned at him, baring strangely sharp teeth. “There we are. I am on a quest of sorts.” He grinned wider. “Looking for a certain Name.”

“A Seeker!” Mumbo gasped, drawing back in horror. That explained the state of the room at the very least.

“And what of it? We’re not so bad once you get to know us, _sir,”_ Maddox said, smirking and licking his lips again.

“Be polite, Mumbo,” Grian scolded, not looking up from the note which he was now examining with a jeweler’s loupe.

Mumbo flushed. “I just—”

“You’ve seen the posters,” Maddox muttered. “‘The Public Is Advised Not To Heed Voices Coming From Wells.’ They’re right, to be completely honest.” He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s just something to keep me busy.”

Mumbo cringed. Seeking wasn’t the first thing he’d turn to to “keep busy,” not by far. He’d seen Seekers before, knew what they did to themselves and others. Obviously, this man was mad. Absolutely barking mad. Still, Grian seemed to trust him, so Mumbo would have to put up with him. “My condolences,” he mumbled, only half sarcastic, and Maddox forced out a laugh.

“No matter, no matter,” he chuckled, a strangely pained look on his face. “Back to business.”

“Yes,” Grian said, shooting a glare at Mumbo. “Business.”

Mumbo sank into the couch cushions, desperately trying to be ignored as Grian peppered Maddox with overly specific questions and Maddox answered as best as he could. A Seeker! Mumbo didn’t know any Seekers personally, just about them from hearsay. People with insatiable hunger, slowly going mad and tearing themselves to pieces…it made him shudder. He’d seen them sometimes, screaming from windows and in restaurants hungrily devouring everything waiters brought them. Maddox _seemed_ sane, but there was enough…strangeness in his mannerisms that it put Mumbo off from trusting him much at all.

“I think that’s all I need,” Grian said, standing suddenly. “Did you get all that, Mumbo?”

Mumbo took the time to halfheartedly scribble down a few random notes, mumbling a few pleasantries and snatching his coat from the hall. He kept his head down and left on Grian’s heels, trying not to make eye contact with Maddox if at all possible.

Once they were back out onto the street Mumbo shivered openly. “He gives me the goosebumps,” he complained, following Grian to where their rooms apparently were.

“Seekers tend to do that,” Grian said. “Doc’s one of the better ones, actually.”

“ _Better_ ones?” Mumbo asked sceptically, raising an eyebrow.

Grian started ticking things off on his fingers. “Well, he didn’t scream, cry, eat anything inedible, rant, rave, try to gnaw his or your arm off—”

“Got it, got it,” Mumbo said, face pale. “So what’s the rundown of the case? I wasn’t…erm, fully paying attention.”

Grian snorted. “I’ll say. Don’t ask questions you’re not prepared to hear the answer to.”

“Well, how was _I_ supposed to know?” Mumbo complained. “You didn’t tell me anything about the man!”

“Use that big ol’ brain of yours, Mumbo!” Grian said. “And to be fair, Doc and I didn’t get off on the right food either. I, well, I _liberated_ a certain plant of his, and the whole thing got so out of hand that it ended up as a full blown turf war between a handful of criminal sects, and—” He waved his hand flippantly. “We both died a lot and now we’re letting bygones be bygones. Point is, don’t worry too much about what he thinks of you.”

“Oh, wait! I think I was a part of that!” Mumbo exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “Accidentally. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and got conscripted to run messages. I think I switched sides at one point?”

Grian snickered. “Yeah, that tends to happen. That’s probably how I ended up with your name, actually. I got a list of all the people involved in messaging and yours was near the top.”

“So _that’s_ how you found me!” Mumbo said. “I was wondering what rag you’d picked up and read far enough into to find one of my pieces.”

“I try not to bother with the literature sections,” Grian said airily. “They don’t interest me in the slightest.”

Mumbo, as a consumer and creator of literature, was a bit taken aback. “So you’re looking to hire a _writer,”_ he said slowly, trying to tamp down his apprehension.

“Oh, that’s different,” Grian said quickly. “I need advertisement for my work and you chronicling what I do will be invaluable to me.”  
Mumbo raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on it.

They walked in silence for a good deal longer, Mumbo following Grian through windier and twistier streets. Mumbo tried to keep track of where they were but got turned around somewhere near the University.

Eventually they got to Moloch Street, and the only reason Mumbo recognized it was because of the train station that sent people off to Hell. Well, that would be a helpful landmark at least.

“Here we are!” Grian said, spreading his arms and stopping in front of an unassuming building that was slightly shorter than all the others on the street. The windows were all dark and the ones on the bottom floor were partially boarded up.

“Looks…homely,” Mumbo said awkwardly as Grian unlocked the heavy front door. They entered into a darkened room filled with shelves. Grian brushed past Mumbo and lit a few lanterns, revealing that they were standing in what appeared to be a mostly-empty library, or more likely a bookshop because of the faded prices on the shelves. A few lonely books remained in their places, having fallen on their sides and becoming covered in dust and cobwebs.

“The rooms are upstairs,” Grian explained, leading Mumbo through the shelves to a staircase. Mumbo followed him up, trying not to be alarmed as the rickety stairs creaked worryingly beneath the thick carpeting.

The first room on the second floor was cozy, if a bit disorganized. There was a writing desk, a larger desk, two couches, a low coffee table, a fireplace, and an overstuffed bookshelf. The larger desk was covered in piles of paper and empty teacups while the writing desk had three teetering stacks of books just balancing on it. Though the downstairs had oil lamps, the upstairs had electric lighting that Mumbo marvelled at as Grian turned it on. They hung their hats and coats already draped in all manner of overclothes. Mumbo wondered why Grian had such a collection, but didn’t question it.

Grian led him to the next room which had a tiny kitchen and a dining area connected to a dark hallway.

“Your room is through the first door on the right down the hall,” Grian said. “I’m the door at the end, second door is the water closet. Pantry stays fairly well stocked by the delivery urchins who I pay off in toffee. You _will_ have to do some meal prep yourself as I don’t always have time to make full meals, but I do keep tinned food for when you don’t have the time either.”

“And the bookstore downstairs?” Mumbo asked. “Must we mind it?”

Grian laughed. “Goodness, no. The shop hasn’t been open in years. I mainly leave it alone, occasionally bringing up a dictionary or some torrid novel to use as kindling.”

 _That explains the empty shelves,_ Mumbo thought. He was privately relieved that he wouldn’t have to run _two_ jobs as a consequence of knowing Grian.

He peeked into what was to be his room, comfortably furnished with a four poster bed and a heavy chest of drawers. It was certainly nicer than the inn he was staying at, and Mumbo could see himself living in the space.

“Is it to your liking?” Grian said hopefully. “Suitable and all that?”

“Yes, definitely,” Mumbo said, nodding. “This will do.”

“Fantastic,” Grian said through a yawn. “It’s getting late. We’ll do the paperwork tomorrow, yeah? I don’t think I want to find it tonight.”

Mumbo pictured the desk in the front room buried in papers. “Sounds alright to me. Goodnight, then?”

“Goodnight, Mumbo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Hoping to consistently post chapters every other day or so~


	3. In which an advertisement is answered and Grian sets a trap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific warnings for this chapter either, enjoy!

The next morning, Mumbo woke up early, refreshed and full of energy. It took him a few minutes to find the tea and the kettle in Grian’s questionable kitchen organization system, but once he did he made himself a cuppa and ate a small breakfast of tinned fruit. His things had been delivered from the inn where he’d been staying, so he unpacked and hung his clothes in his closet. He claimed the writing desk with the stacks of books, carefully moving them to the floor near the poor sagging bookshelf. It was getting a little chilly in the study, so he started a fire in the fireplace using an outdated dictionary and a care book for weasels as kindling. There was some coal in the coal scuttle and soon he had a nice roaring fire going.

It was only after Mumbo had done all this that Grian finally woke up.

“Early riser?” Grian asked, yawning. He was still in his dressing gown and fumbled around in the kitchen for tea.

Mumbo glanced at his pocket watch. “It’s nearly noon,” he said bemusedly.

“Oh, I know,” Grian said, going into the pantry.

Mumbo shook his head, sighing, and began flipping through his current manuscript-in-progress.

“We should visit Doc again today,” Grian said, exiting the pantry with a toothbrush in his hand.

“You keep your toothbrush in the—nevermind,” Mumbo said, deciding it was unimportant. “What else do you need to ask him?”

Grian shrugged. “Dunno, but I’m sure he’d like to involve himself in the case as much as possible, if I know Doc.”

“Good enough reason as any,” Mumbo said under his breath. “I'm going to stay here and get settled, if you don’t mind.”

“Aw, come on,” Grian whined. “What if something interesting happens and you’re not there to write it down?”

“I’m sure you'll remember it for me,” Mumbo said, and turned back to his work. He was _not_ going to embarrass himself again, and he did want to familiarize himself with the flat.

“Fine,” Grian sighed loudly. “I’ll go get dressed and be off, then.”  
It took Grian a surprising amount of time to reappear after he disappeared into his room to change, and he looked fairly normal after he did.

“Take you a long time to decide what to wear?” Mumbo asked, half joking.

“Wasn’t that long,” Grian said, straightening his lapels and taking a hat off the coat rack. “You should see me when I have a formal event to go to. I should be back before teatime, so do save me one of those expensive Bath biscuits, will you?”

Mumbo nodded in agreement and let out a small sigh of relief once Grian had finally gone out the door.

The walk to Doc’s was fairly uneventful and Grian whistled most of the way there. Both Doc and Ren were in rare form when Grian arrived, each acting antsy in their own ways. Doc answered the door with lips pursed, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and Ren was pacing the sitting room as best he could while dodging the piles of papers on the floor. 

“There’s been a development,” Doc said without preamble. “Have you seen this?” He handed Grian a rumpled copy of the _Unexpurgated Gazette_. It was open to the classifieds and one ad in particular was circled in red.

**LOOKING FOR GOOD DEEDS AROUND LONDON.**

**WILL DO ANY GOOD DEED WITHIN REASON**

**FOR TEN ECHOES! ENQUIRE AT ROYAL MAIL**

**P.O. BOX V3-X, ADDRESS INQUIRIES TO**

**“THE JABBERWOCK”**

“Oh, this is the perfect opportunity,” Grian said as he handed the paper back to Doc, rubbing his hands together in excitement. “We’ll set a trap for this so-called Jabberwock using this ‘service’ as bait.”

“How’re we going to do that, G?” Ren asked.

“Simple. We’ll reply to the advertisement and ask them to do something specific in a particular area that we can watch. I’ll put in some details to goad them into tripping up. If they’re who I think they might be, this should be quite easy,” Grian said. “I’ll supply the materials and set everything up. If I get any results I’ll drop you two a note and we’ll confront him.”

Doc grinned, teeth flashing in the light. “That sounds perfect,” he purred. “Do let me know how it works out.”

* * *

Grian drafted his written request four times before sending it off with the required ten Echoes, much to the dismay of Mumbo. “We won’t be able to pay our rent this month,” he said desperately but Grian waved him off.

“It’s fine. I’ve got it covered,” he said with a wink.

Still, Mumbo was apprehensive when asked to accompany Grian on a trip to the Bazaar Sidestreets. “I have to hide a box under a piece of cobble on a certain street corner,” he said emphatically by way of explanation. Mumbo didn’t ask for context, knowing he wouldn’t get any, and just assumed it was for the Jabberwock case instead of some sort of bizarre exercise in modern shopping.

Mumbo hadn’t ever been to the Sidestreets and shrunk away from the sceptical looks he got from the regular visitors. Grian walked confidently, greeting shop owners and dragging Mumbo along behind him. They wound further and further toward the Bazaar, taking so many turns that Mumbo lost count, until finally Grian stopped short in front of an unassuming lamppost on a street mostly empty of people.

“Office behind you,” he muttered to Mumbo. “We’ll hide it here. You have the box?”

Mumbo tried and failed to not glance behind him at a proud, stately building before producing a box of biscuits from inside his coat.

Grian squelched around in the lacre, seemingly looking for something on the street. Mumbo dodged a flying bit of Neath-snow and stood at a safe distance as Grian jumped about, spilling lacre all over the sidewalk. Mumbo felt bad for the street-cleaners who’d have to sweep up after him. Grian eventually stopped, having evidently found what he was looking for. He wiped a bit of slush away from a particular cobblestone, waving his hand impatiently at Mumbo. Mumbo handed him the box, brow furrowed.

“Not the box,” Grian said, rolling his eyes. “Come help me lift this.”

Mumbo raised an eyebrow. “The…pavement?”

Grian nodded exasperatedly. Mumbo bent down and helped Grian maneuver a surprisingly large chunk of cobble out of its setting in the sidewalk. Beneath was a small hole dug into the packed earth, perfect for leaving secret notes or parcels. Grian took the box from Mumbo and jammed it beneath the stone. Mumbo shoved the piece of cobble back into place, grunting with the effort.

“You sure the Jabberwock will know which piece of cobble to unearth?” Mumbo asked, catching his breath.

Grian nodded confidently. “It’s a popular place for exchanging secrets and I was very clear in my inquiry. I’m just hoping nobody finds it before _they_ do.”

“Does it have a code in it? A letter? Some sort of way to tell who they are?” Mumbo asked.

“Nope, it’s just a normal box of Murgatroyd’s,” Grian said. “It’s a diversion. It’s what happens _around_ the box that I’m going to be paying attention to.”

* * *

A few anxious days later they went back to check on the trap. Grian grinned as they approached the lamppost as though he had already figured out who the Jabberwock was. Mumbo noticed the sidewalk was immaculately shoveled around the lamppost and the lacre was neatly piled on the curb, an even better job than the most expensive urchins.

Grian retrieved the box from its hiding place under the loose bit of cobble and handed it to Mumbo with a disinterested glance, choosing instead to examine the surrounding pavement. Mumbo opened the box curiously and nearly dropped it when he saw what was inside. It was stuffed to the brim with neat stacks of Echoes and only a few crumbs remained of the biscuits.

“We have him now!” Grian crowed triumphantly.

Mumbo barely heard him, staring at the paper notes. That was more money than he made in a month—no, than he made in a _year._ “Oh my _word,_ ” he breathed. “Are we keeping all this?”

Grian shrugged. “We might have to split it with Ren and Doc but sure, why not?”

Mumbo hurriedly folded the lid back over the box, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed the money. “How much did you even _ask_ for?”

Grian thought for a second. “Um, three Echoes per biscuit? And it was a full box, so…a lot.”

“My word,” Mumbo repeated. “Even half of this should pay for rent and food for a few months at the very least.”

“You know what’s even more exciting than that?” Grian asked, eye bright. “ _I_ know who the Jabberwock is!”

“Of course that’s what you’re concerned with,” Mumbo said, rolling his eyes.

Grian waved his hand flippantly. “Oh, hush. We get paid for this too, you know. Come on, let’s go drop off Ren’s and Doc’s shares and go home. I’ll drop a note with the money for them to meet me by the offices on Ladybones tomorrow. We’ve got a Jabberwock to catch.”

“Snicker-snack,” Mumbo muttered. 


	4. In which there is a frabjous day, callooh! callay!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Jabberwock is caught, Grian gets paid, and Mumbo flexes his literary muscles.  
> No warnings!

Grian bounded into the study the next morning around ten, which was the earliest Mumbo had ever seen him up. “Today’s the day, Mumbo!” he crowed. “Ready to go catch the Jabberwock?”

Mumbo glanced out the window. “‘Tis quite brillig,” he said thoughtfully. “And…those slithy toves? Are they gyring and gimbling?” 

Grian groaned. “I might just go back to bed if you keep making literature references,” he threatened.

Mumbo got a devilish grin on his face. “But the borogoves are mimsy!” he protested, trying not to laugh.

Grian raised an eyebrow before turning to go back to his bedroom and Mumbo burst out laughing. “No, no, Grian, come back,” he gasped out between giggles.

Grian turned back, a very unimpressed look on his face. “I might just leave you here,” he said, sending Mumbo into another fit of laughter. 

“I do need to stay home, actually,” Mumbo said once he’d caught his breath. “I have a month left with this editor and I need to at least get something done for him because, you know, some of us get _paid.”_ Mumbo waved a flimsy stack of paper at Grian.

“What’s the _point_ of hiring an amanuensis if you never come with me to record my momentous exploits?” Grian whined. When Mumbo shot him a look he sighed. “Fine, fine. Spoilsport. Have fun _writing_ like some sort of _nerd.”_

Mumbo rolled his eyes. “I most definitely will not,” he said as Grian laced up his shoes. “And the term ‘nerd’ won’t be widely used for another seventy years!”

Grian shrugged while buttoning his jacket. “I’ll be home by noon,” he said by way of a farewell before starting down the stairs.

“Oh, and Grian!” Mumbo called after him. “One last thing.”

“Yeeesss?” Grian said, popping his head back into the room.

“‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son, the jaws that bite, the claws th—’”

Grian slammed the door behind him and left to the sound of Mumbo’s laughter.

* * *

Doc and Ren were waiting for him by the southern Corporation of Conventionality offices. Ren greeted Grian brightly and Doc looked hungrier than ever. “You’ll sure he’ll be here?” Doc asked, and Grian nodded.

“He comes out of this building every workday in about—” Grian checked his watch. “A minute and a half.”

Ten minutes later the ornate door swung open and Scar stepped out.

“Hello, Jabberwock,” Grian said, grinning ear to ear as he approached Scar.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Scar said stiffly, moving to walk around Grian.

“Oh, I think you do, Mr. Goodman,” Ren said, cutting Scar off. Scar turned but Doc was behind him, innocently twirling his cane.

“Now, now, there’s no need to get physical,” Scar said, voice rising with anxiety.

“You anonymously returned the statues to the currency exchange. You put the advertisement in the Gazette. You bought the biscuits under the lamppost in the sidestreets,” Grian accused, stabbing his finger towards Scar.

Scar desperately searched each of their faces for pity or kindness and found none. “Fine,” he groaned. “Yes, it was me, I was the Jabberwock. The statues showed up in a ConCorp warehouse and I thought I’d give them back. Cub didn't know; if he did he'd have sold them off. Please don't get him involved, I've only just gotten off probation.”

“Aha!” Grian cried. “I knew it. Not even the urchins clean the pavement so thoroughly of lacre!”

Scar grinned sheepishly. “You got me there,” he said, glancing down at the surrounding sidewalk that was immaculately polished. “Oh, and you can keep the money for the biscuits. The deed was paid for and I completed it.”

“Do you have any idea who took the statues in the first place?” Doc asked, sidling towards Scar.

Scar scratched the back of his neck. “No idea. Might have been the Vexation. They have a base near that warehouse.”

Grian squinted at him but didn’t say anything. Ren looked positively gleeful, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

“Can we please put this behind us?” Scar begged. “I could lose my job. I could lose my _reputation.”_

“Yes, of course,” Doc said silkily. “We’re most grateful for your…compliance.”

Scar winced at the word but nodded. “Good day then,” he said, obviously relieved. He began to walk away briskly, but in his haste slipped in a puddle of melted lacre and fell flat on his face.

Grian let out a snort, then burst into laughter. Doc and Ren quickly joined him in his mirth as Scar stood up and hurried away, his face bright red.

“That went well,” Grian said once he’d caught his breath and Doc nodded in agreement. 

“Thank you again for your help,” Doc said. “Good day to you.” He turned to leave but Grian caught his coattails.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Grian said, giving Doc a pointed look.

“Oh. You want payment for this,” Doc said, rolling his eyes. He pulled out his purse and peeled a few greasy bills off of a stack, handing them to Grian in a rumpled mess.

Grian grimaced and tweezed the bills between two fingers. “Many thanks,” he said, curling his lip. Doc grinned and tipped his hat, shooting Grian another wide smile.

Ren shook Grian’s free hand emphatically. “Jolly good,” he said in a terrible accent. “Good show, chaps.”

Grian sighed slightly and waved as the two left before heading towards home.

* * *

“How’d it go?” Mumbo asked when Grian came in, looking up from his papers.

“He did it, just as I thought,” Grian said carelessly. “Doc paid me and that was that.”

“Oh, frabjous day, callooh callay,” Mumbo said, looking back down at his manuscript. “That’s it?” He was a bit incredulous that Grian wasn’t already talking his ear off about it.

Grian’s eyes glittered, not even fazed by Mumbo’s Jabberwocky reference. “It was _fantastic._ Scar didn’t have a chance. There was no one else it could have been that would have been in that area.” He dropped the crumpled wad of Echoes in front of Mumbo and patted his shoulder. “You really should have been there.”

“Well, I’m glad it went so well,” Mumbo said, nudging the bills off his manuscript with the back of his fountain pen. “I’ll have to be there the next time you unmask a criminal who did literally nothing wrong.”

“That’s the thing,” Grian said, flopping onto his couch. “Scar didn’t even take the statues in the first place. They were left at a ConCorp warehouse and he decided to return them.”

“Curious,” Mumbo said. “Why didn’t he own up to it earlier?”

“The Corporation of Conventionality has a reputation of being cutthroat, and returning stolen statues isn’t really in their repertoire,” Grian explained. “He was definitely hiding it from his business partner, Cub. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading to bed.”

“It’s barely noon!” Mumbo exclaimed, but Grian had already gone. Mumbo sighed and went back to struggling through his manuscript. He certainly had one of the strangest flatmates.


	5. In which Grian gets bored and harasses the constabulary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grian gets sick of the usual cases and decides to go find one himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS is where the serial killing talk starts as well as the beginning of the Jack story. I'll also mark the Big spoilers if y'all are trying to avoid that. That's the only warning!

It only took about a week for the novelty and pride of solving Doc’s case to wear off and Grian grew restless. He was getting a small trickle of clients with the usual cases, accusations of adultery and thievery and the like, but Mumbo could tell he was getting sick of them.

It was after the ninth of these cases that Grian solved without even having to leave the flat that he collapsed onto his couch and heaved a sigh so great Mumbo thought his lungs might collapse.

“Bored,” Grian loudly announced into the couch cushion. “Bored, bored, boring, bored, bored!” He let out an elongated groan that Mumbo had only heard come from honey-mazed drifters lying in the gutter. “The life of the average Londoner has become too droll for me to do anything with,” Grian moaned dramatically, making Mumbo roll his eyes. “Their ‘cases’ just aren’t cutting it any more. I need something new. Something fresh. Something impressive and exciting!” He leapt to his feet in a burst of passion. “The jig is up!” he shouted, startling Mumbo into ending a sentence he was writing with a scribble of ink.

Grian bounded across the room and snatched a hat and coat seemingly at random from the pile that hid the hatstand. “Come along, Mumbo!” he cried, dashing out the door.

Mumbo heaved a sigh and scratched out a line on his manuscript before reluctantly donning his own hat and coat and following Grian.

Grian was waiting on the street for Mumbo, bouncing on the balls of his feet before starting off at a quick pace towards Ladybones Road. “We, my friend, are going to solve the biggest mystery of our generation,” Grian said.

Mumbo furrowed his brow, trying his best to not slip in the ammonia-scented puddles of half-melted lacre. “Erm, why London fell into the Neath? What Mrs. Plenty’s Rubbery Lumps are actually made of? If Clay Men are really clay?”

Grian scoffed. “Have you been hitting the laudanum? No, my good man, we’re going to be apprehending the deadliest serial killer London has ever known: the infamous Jack-of-Smiles!”

Mumbo tripped over his own feet and stumbled headfirst into a lamppost. “You’re going after  _ Jack?”  _ he spluttered, flabbergasted, holding a hand to his bruised nose. 

Grian beamed at him. “Indeed we are! And I know the first person to help us start out on our quest.”

He led Mumbo down a small side street that Mumbo actually recognized. Surely they weren’t… “Grian, are we allowed—?”

“Shh,” Grian hissed, peeking around a corner.

Mumbo flattened himself against the wall behind Grian, raising a hand to the brim of his hat to keep it from falling while he peeked over the top of Grian’s head.

A few constables were riding velocipedes around a carefully shoveled practice yard. One seemed particularly reckless, throwing his weight around on the rickety contraption like it was a horse. He sped around at twice the speed of the other officers and made a game of unseating them as he raced by. Mumbo caught a flash of light as a street lamp reflected a strange eyepiece on the constable’s face.

“See him?” Grian whispered. “The most confident copper in the yard?”

“Yes,” Mumbo whispered back, hoping Grian wasn’t suggesting what Mumbo thought he was.

“That’s our man.” Without waiting for Mumbo to answer, Grian leapt into full view of the constables in the yard. “Hallo, Iskall!” he yelled.

The constables all stopped their velocipedes and stared at Grian as Mumbo shrank back into the shadows. Was Grian  _ trying  _ to get arrested?

Fortunately, the constable they’d been watching tossed down his ride and barreled straight into Grian, lifting him up in the air in a bear hug. “Angry Anderson!” he roared jovially in a Swedish accent. “I thought you’d be dead in a ditch by now!”

Grian laughed. “Nope, still alive and kicking!” He beckoned to Mumbo once Iskall put him down, and Iskall looked to the alleyway expectantly.

Mumbo crept into the yard, extremely aware of all the constables’ eyes boring into him. “Hello,” he squeaked. “I—I’m with him.” He gestured awkwardly at Grian.

“This is Mumbo Jumbo, my hired writer,” Grian said to Iskall. “He’s still not all that used to everything I do.” He said this with a conspiratorial grin that would have bothered Mumbo if he wasn’t trying so hard to not be noticed.

Iskall beamed. “Any friend of Grian’s is a friend of mine!” he said, grasping Mumbo’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically. Mumbo was sure Iskall was going to rip his arm off when he finally let go. He surreptitiously rubbed his fingers to make sure they still worked before nodding awkwardly to the other constables who were still staring.

“Do you have someplace more private we could talk?” Grian asked Iskall in a low voice.

Iskall nodded. “Hey, lads, can you take care of my boneshaker? I’m going to have a chat with these good fellows,” he called to his comrades. A few nodded, still shooting suspicious glances at Grian before picking up Iskall’s velocipede and wheeling it to the side.

Iskall led the two of them into the constabulary office building to his own office space. It was sparsely furnished with a bookcase, a desk, and a few chairs. “Please, sit,” he said. “I’m guessing you didn’t just come by to catch up with an old friend. What can I do for the two of you gentlemen?”

Grian grew serious as he settled into his chair. “We need to have a talk about Jack.”

Iskall’s face froze for a split second before he regained his composure. “What do you need to know?” he asked, suddenly guarded and nothing at all like the jolly constable they’d met in the yard.

Grian steepled his fingers. “Everything. I’m going to solve this case for you.”

Iskall let out a humorless laugh. “Do you know what happened to the last investigator who went after Jack? His family received a box the size of a loaf of bread to bury. No one’s gone after Jack without becoming him. No one.” His face was pained and Mumbo guessed he’d known the previous investigator. “I don’t want to let you do this, Grian. You’re my friend and I don’t want to see you die like that. Does Mumbo even know what he’s getting into?”

Grian nodded, eyes intense. “We know the risks.” Mumbo flinched but didn’t say anything.

“And you’re still going to go through with this? You must be crazier than I thought,” Iskall said, smiling with a touch of sadness before letting his face fall back into stony seriousness. “Well, I can promise you a fast, painless end if you do. That’s the best I can do for you.” Iskall sighed, shoulders slumping. “Are you really sure?”

“As sure as the sun still shines on the Surface,” Grian said confidently. Mumbo was exponentially less sure, but he wasn’t going to leave now. “So, what can you tell us about Jack?” Grian asked, leaning forwards in his chair.

Iskall spread his hands helplessly. “Not much, I’m afraid. Even if I wanted to, most of the files and evidence have been sent away, confiscated by the Ministry of Public Decency.”

“Sent away?!” Grian shouted, leaping up and startling Mumbo. “Ah, Hell’s bells!” He started to pace the small room and Mumbo scooted his chair out of the way to give him space.

Grian rounded on Iskall who was busy polishing his bluish monocle, not at all fazed by Grian’s behavior. “What  _ can  _ you tell us then?” he said sharply.

“Same as what you already know, most likely. Jack-of-Smiles is a body-swapping serial killer and you have to permanently kill him to get rid of him in a body.” He leaned forwards slightly, lowering his voice to a rough whisper. “There have been whispers of one or two that were caught and declared ‘cured.’ They were released and the whole thing was covered up so well that no one really knows much about it.” Iskall shrugged. “I wouldn’t know the first place to look for evidence about them, and it’s all mostly hearsay.”

Grian paused his conquest of the tiny office floor and Mumbo had a sudden thought. “Would you, by any chance, know any constables who’ve, erm, apprehended any Jack’s that we could talk to?”

“ _ Yes,  _ Mumbo!” Grian yelled, and Mumbo startled. My, he was certainly becoming quite jumpy lately. “Now you’re asking the right questions!”

Iskall gave him a wry smile. “Sure I do, but you might have to go to the Royal Bethlehem to find the sanest one. If not there, then the Tomb-Colonies for the one with the most limbs still attached.”

Mumbo’s mouth twisted. “Well, that’s a dead end,” he said under his breath.

“That’s about all I can give you,” Iskall said, folding his hands. “If there’s really no way I can talk you out of it, I can at least offer you my services as a constable. If there’s anything you need, any laws that need to be bent…well, you know where I am, evidently.”

“Right, of course,” Grian said, shaking Iskall’s hand quickly. “Much obliged for the help, Iskall!” He grabbed Mumbo’s arm and yanked him out of the office.

“God be with you! Stay safe!” Iskall bellowed after them through the door as Grian dragged Mumbo down the halls and out of the building. Mumbo grabbed his hat to keep it from being blown off and the two of them barely dodged a startled urchin who was scooping lacre into buckets from the curb. There was certainly a lot more running involved in detective work than Mumbo would have thought.

“Why— _ are _ —we always—running?” he huffed, his long legs the only reason he was able to keep up with Grian’s seemingly boundless energy.

“Beats walking!” Grian cried. “And it’s cheaper than a hansom. “I’ll race you back to Moloch Street!” With a burst of speed he dodged past a few ladies out for a walk together and turned down an alley. Mumbo sighed, slowing to apologize to the scandalized women before chasing Grain all the way back to their flat.

Once they were settled back into their rooms above the dusty bookshop, Grian began to go over their options. “We need to start somewhere,” he was saying, twirling a pen between his fingers. “And where better to start than the networks of information already conveniently in place?” He dropped the pen suddenly and snapped his fingers. “Mark the time!”

Mumbo blinked and pulled out his pocket watch. “Um, around half past eight I beli—”

“We’re going to be late!” Grian yelled, leaping to his feet. “Hurry!” He dashed outside and Mumbo followed, as baffled as ever. He found Grian scaling a ladder in the alley behind the building and followed as quickly as he could without falling. It’s not that he had a problem with heights, it’s that he had a problem with Grian yelling at him to climb faster every step of the way.

“Oh, good,” Grian said once they’d reached the roof, much quieter now. “It’s only just begun.”

Mumbo blinked and looked around the rooftop. Many, many pairs of green, yellow, and amber eyes stared back at him. Lounging cats covered the entire roof, blinking at the two of them. Mumbo suddenly remembered how cats shared secrets with each other at certain times of night, and that they must be intruding onto one of their meetings.

“Oh, please,” Grian said to the cats, hands held out in front of him. “He’s a friend! You can trust him!”

Mumbo flushed as the cats squinted at him judgmentally. They delicately turned tail, getting up and leaving the rooftop one by one. “I’m sorry, Grian,” he said quietly, hands clasped awkwardly in front of him. “I can leave—”

“Fine! I didn’t need your secrets anyway, mangy beasts!” Grian yelled, flinging a ball of paper at the retreating felines, which struck Mumbo as decidedly the wrong move. He turned to Mumbo, heaving a sigh. “They can be a little touchy around newcomers. There is another option for information, but it isn’t as reliable by far.”

Mumbo considered pointing out that the cats didn’t seem all that reliable either, but decided it was safer to keep his mouth shut.


	6. In which the author reveals the inherent flaws in the mail system

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grian and Mumbo buy some important intel and a lot of rats from a stressed mailwoman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular warnings!

The next day, Grian was so full of energy it exhausted Mumbo to even watch him as he bounced around the flat before they finally left to go to Grian’s ‘less reliable source of information.’

“If you’re looking for information around London and cats don’t like you  _ and  _ you don’t trust the Masters’ tinderbox rags, then the next best thing is to accost a courier and go through their bags for tidbits,” Grian said as he led Mumbo to yet another part of London he’d never been before.

Mumbo burst out laughing before noticing Grian’s face. “Wait, you’re serious? My word, Grian!” He was no saint by London’s terms, but he’d never done  _ that. _

Grian shrugged nonchalantly. “Luckily, we don’t have to dirty our knuckles with that anymore.” They’d reached a tall marble building that Mumbo recognized as the post office by the large image of a crown emblazoned above the door and also the enormous sign that said ROYAL MAIL in large, blocky letters. And Grian said he had no powers of observation.

“I’ve got a friend on the inside who should be able to help us,” Grian whispered loudly in an exaggeratedly conspiratorial tone.

Mumbo raised an eyebrow as Grian threw open the door. They made their way past the public mailboxes to a small office that Grian entered without knocking. “Merry Christmas, Stress!” he said cheerily to the haggard-looking young woman seated at a desk piled with papers and parcels.

“Oh, shut up, you!” Stress snapped without looking up from sorting the immense stacks of mail. “Bloody Christmas, comes every bloody year, why can’t people jus’ meet up an’ give cards an’ gifts to eachuvver like in the owd days? An’ not to mention now there’s all these bleedin’  _ rats _ —” The young woman threw a limp parcel to the floor where it burst open, revealing, to Mumbo’s surprise and disgust, a number of literal rat corpses.

“We’ve got something that might take your mind off the holidays,” Grian said, stepping into the room and motioning for Mumbo to follow.

Mumbo awkwardly tried to avoid the piles of mail on the floor, but still managed to knock two stacks of letters over. “Oh, pardon,” he said, bending down to collect the envelopes and knocking over several more stacks of letters and parcels that scattered across the floor. He flushed as Stress peered exasperatedly over the piles on her desk.

“Don’t worry about it,” she sighed, obviously frustrated. “It’s not like those were already sorted or nuffin’.”

Mumbo straightened, ducking his head in embarrassment. “My deepest apologies, ma’am,” he mumbled.

Stress ignored him and turned back to Grian. “You need sumpin’?” she said in a clipped tone. “Or did you just come ‘ere to ‘ave your new manservant bovver me?”

Mumbo flinched. “I said I was sorry—!” he protested, but Grian held up a hand to stop him.

“He’s new, do forgive him,” Grian said offhandedly, not bothering to correct Stress that Mumbo wasn’t a manservant. “But we do need something from you, if you’ve found anything in the mess of Christmas rubbish.”

Stress exhaled and began rifling through the mail on her desk. “You in the market for anythin’ specific or just general secrets?”

“From the constabulary to the Ministry of Public Decency,” Grian said and Stress froze, her entire demeanor changing.

“Well. That’s anuvver matter entirely,” she said slowly. “That’ll cost ya a lot…you got the coin for it?”

Grian grinned. “I do, in fact. Mumbo, pay the nice lady.”

Mumbo’s mouth dropped open. “Wh—Grian!” he spluttered.

“You heard me,” Grian said sharply, and Mumbo relented, sighing and pulling out his purse.

“How much?” he asked, staring despondently at the meager payment that remained from his last publication.

Stress giggled girlishly. “Me! A lady! That’s a larf, Grian.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Firty Echoes. Because you’re so nice to me.” Mumbo gaped at the number. That was more than he made in a month! A  _ good  _ month!

“We haven’t even seen the goods yet,” Grian scoffed, waving a hand carelessly. “Fifteen.”

Stress narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. Grian mirrored her. “Trust me. You’ll wan’ it. Twen’y-five.”

“Eighteen and we’ll take some of these rats off your hands to sweeten the deal,” Grian said, gesturing to the parcels.

“Done,” Stress said without hesitation, holding out her hand. They shook on it and Mumbo couldn’t help but feel a little left out. Especially considering that it was his money, since the money from Doc and Grian’s other cases mostly went towards Grian’s clothing habit and their rent. Mumbo pulled out the bills and handed them over, trying to ignore how light his purse had become.

Stress tucked the bills into her pocket. “Fankin’ you!” she gushed, grinning. It was the first genuine smile she’d shown the two of them.

“Let’s see it then,” Grian said, rubbing his hands together.

“Here,” Stress said, hefting a large, locked file-box onto her desk. “There’s a lot more, at least a cartload, but that’ll cost ya extra. This is the first volume.”

Grian fanned his face, beaming. “I may weep with joy,” he said, not even bothering to hold in his enthusiasm. “Much obliged, Stress. I owe you one.” He moved to grab the box but Stress smacked his hand away.

“Ah, ah, ah!” he scolded. “Rats too!”

“Er, yes, of course. Mumbo, be a good chap and collect as many of the things as you can,” Grian said, snatching up his quarry.

Mumbo sighed and began scooping up the packages, only taking the ones that felt the most ratty and the least damp. “Take that one,” Stress said, indicating a large box. “An’ that one too.”

Mumbo collected as many of the parcels as he could carry, barely able to lift them all. “Er…Grian?” he said. Grian was already examining the lock on the file box, muttering to himself.

“Ah! Yes,” Grian said, looking up. “Many thanks again, Stress, but we must be going now. Wouldn’t want to keep you from your job any longer than I have to.” He winked. “And—dare I say it—happy holidays?”

Stress groaned. “ _ You  _ try bein’ a bleedin’ mailperson durin’ the busiest bloody season of the bloody year—”

Grian opened the door and ushered Mumbo through, Stress’ tirade following them all the way down the hall.

“…Grian?” Mumbo asked once they’d gotten outside, muffled by the stack of packages stacked up to his eye level. “What are we going to do with all these, er, rats?”

Grian shrugged. “Sell ‘em. Burn ‘em. Eat ‘em.”

“ _ Eat  _ them?” Mumbo said, stomach turning.

Grian grinned. “Rat stew, yum yum! A staple in the diet of the lower class.”

Mumbo sighed. “At this rate, I believe rat stew and I are going to have to make each other’s acquaintance.  _ Eighteen  _ Echoes for a box of debatable use?”

Grian clapped Mumbo on the back, causing him to drop some of his ratty burden. “You said it, my good man! And it was a very reasonable price, if you ask me.”

“Can we stop by Merrigan’s to drop these off?” Mumbo asked, hefting the packages. “At least we might make a few pence back off of them.”

Grian thought about this. “It’s on our way back, so I’ll allow it.”

“How kind of you,” Mumbo muttered, rolling his eyes.

The rats didn’t fetch a fortune in any sense of the word, but the few extra pennies clinking in Mumbo’s purse made him feel a little bit better about his current financial situation. They made it back to Moloch Street without incident where Grian immediately set about trying to pick the locked box open.

Mumbo flopped onto Grian’s couch. “Use the other one!” Grian said without looking up. “That’s my thinking couch!”

Mumbo rolled his eyes but obliged and moved to the smaller, less comfortable couch. “I should be writing,” he said dryly. “But it was exhausting just  _ watching  _ the poor woman. How does she even survive that job?”

“She doesn’t,” Grian said, rifling through his desk drawers for his good set of lockpicks. “She’s died at least five times from assassin’s letters and boxed cats and such. Of course, it’s rare that someone  _ wants  _ to kill a mailperson, but it happens.”

“Remind me to never turn to that job even if I don’t have a penny to my name,” Mumbo said, shuddering.

“I shall,” Grian said. “Now stop talking, you’ll make me lose hold of this pin.” He was delicately shifting a few small implements in the lock, kneeling awkwardly on the floor so he could see it better. Mumbo opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it. 

After a few minutes of Grian swearing like a zailor under his breath, the lock sprung open. “Got it!” he cried, scattering his picks across his desk in excitement. Mumbo hopped up and went to look. Inside the box was a hefty stack of folders containing police reports and assorted evidence.

“What  _ is  _ all this?” Mumbo asked, tweezing a bloody piece of cloth between his fingers. Grian rapped his knuckles with a pen, causing Mumbo to drop the rag.

“Evidence,” Grian snapped. “Don’t touch.”

“Pardon me,” Mumbo muttered, rubbing his sore hand. “But how exactly is it supposed to help you if it can’t help the long line of investigators before you? The most useful thing I can see is the reports.”

“That’s because you’re looking with your  _ eyes,  _ Mumbo! This here is a treasure trove of information that will at the very least get me pointed in the right direction.” Grian swept his arm across his desk, dumping everything on it onto the floor except for the box, cutting off Mumbo’s protest of not being able to look with anything else other than his eyes. “Be a good chap and fetch me some envelopes, will you?”

Mumbo went to Grian’s bureau and rifled through the “papery bits” drawer. The envelopes were crushed against the back corner and Mumbo tried to smooth them flat as he fished them out.

Grian was methodically removing everything from the box and sorting the contents into organized piles that made no sense to Mumbo. “Good! Thank you,” he said, taking the stack and beginning to stuff a few of the smaller piles into individual envelopes. “This is going to take a while to go through fully, but I found a few things we might want to investigate sooner rather than later.”

Mumbo nodded, clasping his hands behind his back in an effort to not straighten the messy piles on the desk. He could barely comprehend that this was only the first volume of evidence. What had Stress said? That the rest of it was transported by cart? Mumbo could believe it.

“Here,” Grian said, handing Mumbo two slim files. “There’s a small note clipped to an article about an up-and-coming assassin, and an entire profile on a devil named Keralis. There isn’t much written on either of them.”

Mumbo flipped open the first file, skimming Keralis’ details. He had several counts of illegal gambling, a few charges of thievery, and…Mumbo squinted at the cramped writing in the corner. “Mass murder?” he read aloud, startled.

Grian nodded. “Nobody’s actually sure if devils can become Jack, but I’m betting they’re speculating Keralis here became one. The other file’s about a man named Benjamin Falkner, commonly known as Biffa. Here, look.” He took the other file from Mumbo and showed him a handwritten note.

_ Jack apprehended. Weapon confiscated. Jack seemed confused, very rapid change in temperament. Under watch in custody for five days. Released 8/16/87. _

Grian furrowed his brow. “These must be the Jacks Iskall was talking about. The ones that were hushed up. Obviously they found these reports valuable to the case, but didn’t want to make a formal announcement.”

“So this is our next step? Find them and interview them?” Mumbo asked.

“Yep,” Grian said. “Keralis will be easier to find, so let’s start with him. If he can’t give us anything we’ll go after Biffa next.”


	7. In which a devil and a Seeker are unlikely friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grian and Mumbo interview Rally the devil about his supposed stunt as a Jack. Also Bdubs is there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: minor body horror due to Braeden's Seeker status near the end. This chapter's a little weird because I have NO idea how to write Keralis OR Bdubs.

“Scary, hairy, Larry,” Rally murmured when he heard the knock at the door. “Think they’re after you or me, Bubbles?”

Braeden turned away from the door, face stormy. “Dunno,” he said. “But I bet they’re looking for trouble.”

Rally peeked through the peephole. “Looky looky at my cookie(no please don’t), these men look quite fancy schmancy.”

“Constables?” Braeden asked.

Rally shook his head. “I don’t know. Should I let them in?”

Braeden nodded once, jaw set.

“Hello,” Grian said before the door had even opened fully. “I’m a mostly-private investigator and—”

Rally shut the door. “Eh, you still sure we should let them in?”

Braeden let a ghost of a smile touch his face. “Yes, Rally, just open the door.”

Grian was more than a little miffed when the door opened again and he drew himself to his full height, still trying to be professional. “My name is Axel Quail Anderson and I’m here to talk to one Keralis Devil about an incident that happened a few years ago.”

Rally paled. “Yes, yes of course,” he murmured. “Please come in.”

Braeden’s brow knit with worry. He’d never seen Rally like that. He was always chipper and cheeky, even in the most dire of circumstances. But now he looked like someone had walked over his grave, and Braeden didn’t even think devils  _ had  _ graves.

“Care to introduce us?” Grian asked Rally, raising an eyebrow in Braeden’s direction.

“Braeden Oleander,” Braeden said coolly, sticking out a hand. Grian shook, and the tension in the room was nearly tangible.

Mumbo coughed. “I’m his amanuensis, Levi Valentin. I go by Mumbo Jumbo.”

Braeden nodded in his direction before turning back to Grian. “Whatever you have to say in front of him you can say in front of me.”

“Bubbles—” Rally started, and Braeden held up a hand.

“Rally, you know I can handle anything. If the Name can’t kill me, nothing in your past will.”

Rally shrank back a little, hovering awkwardly still near the door as Grian and Mumbo sat down on the ripped couch. Braeden crossed his arms, levelling both of them with a hard stare.

“When you mentioned a name—” Grian started, and Braeden rolled his eyes.

“Candles and wax and wells and Names. Yes. I Sought for a while,” he said.

“Why is everyone a Seeker?” Mumbo asked under his breath.

“Ex-Seeker,” Braeden said, tone acidic. “The distinction’s important.”

Mumbo looked immediately apologetic. “He’s a bit tactless with Seekers,” Grian said, rolling his eyes. “Not a lot of experience with them.”

“Think nothing of it,” Braeden said, voice rising slightly. “Now say what you need to Rally and  _ get out _ .”

Grian cleared his throat slightly. “A few years ago you were apprehended by the London constabulary for exhibiting symptoms of being Jack-of-Smiles. Your weapon was removed and several hours later you appeared to come out of a trance, returning to a civilized state. I’m investigating the Jack-of-Smiles case and am here to ask you a few questions about your experience as a Jack.”

Rally visibly relaxed as Grian talked, even looking a little embarrassed. “Well, ah, you see,” he started, nervously adjusting the sheer ribbon covering his orange eyes. “Jackie-boy and I don’t know each other as well as you think.”

Grian cocked his head to the side like a particularly peckish bird. “What do you mean?”

Rally rubbed the back of his neck. “I was never Jackie-Smiles,” he confessed. “I faked it. I stabbed the people all by my little self. I wanted to keep the Brass Embassy off my cute butt because they don't like what I’m doing.”

“What could you be doing that the Brass Embassy doesn’t like?” Grian asked, a bit exasperated. “Not bringing in enough souls to fulfill your quota?”

“Exactly!” Rally said cheerfully. “I make friends with the souls they don’t like. Look at Bubbles here. His soul...so intewesting. And they see no worth in him!” He tutted, obviously disappointed in his fellow devils.

Braeden curled his lip slightly but made no comment.

“So…you faked being a Jack,” Grian said slowly. “To keep the Brass Embassy away so you could make friends with Seekers…?”

“Rehabilitation,” Rally said with a fangy grin. “Stained soul is still a soul, just need to run it through the laundry a few times.”

“And you’re...the laundry?” Grian asked, slightly defeated.

Rally nodded happily. 

Grian sighed deeply, rubbing his eyes. “I believe that’s all I needed to know, thank you. We’ll be on our way now.”

Braeden watched Mumbo and Grian like a hawk until they were out the door and it was closed and locked behind them before slumping back in his chair.

“Are you okay, Bubbles?” Rally asked. “I’m sorry for not telling you earlier. I just didn’t want you to worry about the Embassy.”

“It’s not that,” Braeden said roughly. “I hate that we have to worry about the Embassy at all. I hate that you’re not free to live your life and make friends as you wish. I hate that you’re stuck with  _ me  _ of all people!” His voice rose, getting louder and louder as he talked.

Rally flinched. “Oh, Bubbles,” he said gently.

“Don’t you ‘oh, Bubbles’ me!” Braeden yelled, reaching a hand to his eye where a scar was beginning to hurt. “I’m  _ nobody,  _ Rally. You have no use for my soul.” He cursed under his breath when his fingers came away wet from the old wound.

“It’s weepy again,” Rally said worriedly. “Here—” He reached for Braeden but Braeden smacked his hand away.

“I’m fine!” he growled. “It’s just wax.”

Rally pulled back, bottom lip poking out. “Waxy Bubbles isn’t good, please lemme help?”

Braeden heaved a sigh, but let Rally lay his fingers on the wound. The devil’s natural heat melted the wax and made it run into Braeden’s eye. God, It hurt like Hell, but it helped.

“We both know I’m not here for your soul,” Rally said, wiping his fingertips off on a handkerchief. “And we also both know I’m not here for your cooking.” Braeden barked out a laugh. “I’m your _ friend _ . Friends don’t steal friends’ souls.”

“I know,” Braeden said, volume back down to a manageable level. “I just...I get so tired sometimes. I’m sorry! You’ve just had a bit of a shock and I’m here making it about me—”

He was almost yelling again and Rally shushed him gently. “The neighbors will get angwy,” he said with a small grin. “It’s okay to be upset. It’s about you too. That’s why you stayed, yeah?”

Braeden smiled slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Thank you, Rally.”

* * *

“Well, that was no use to us at all,” Grian said once they’d got back to Moloch Street, tearing off his scarf in frustration. “Damned devils with their own damned agendas—”

“I thought it was quite sweet,” Mumbo said. “You usually think of devils as being two-faced, only working towards their own gain, but Rally didn’t have anything to gain from that friendship other than, well, friendship.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t help  _ me,” _ Grian complained. “Ugh. And Biffa’s going to be so much more of a chore to find…”

“It can wait till tomorrow—” Mumbo started but Grian was already sifting through the evidence again, looking for Falkner’s file. 

“We’ll just have to go talk to some of my contacts of more ill repute.” He glanced at his watch. “How often have you been to the Rings?”


	8. In which Grian is accosted by a professional pugilist and Mumbo talks to cats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mumbo and Grian go to the Ring of Meat to find False, a renowned fighter. While there, Mumbo meets a fellow writer. They receive information from False, and Mumbo makes some new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mumbo has a sensory overload(its really loud in the Ring of Meat), False threatens Grian with a knife

“I really don’t think this is a good atmosphere for me,” Mumbo whispered in Grian’s ear as the two of them maneuvered through the throngs of spectators in the makeshift stands surrounding the Ring of Meat. He shuddered as a grimy man coughed loudly and spat a wad of mucus onto the rickety floor.

“You’re not doing a very good job of blending in,” Grian hissed back, hunching his shoulders and walking more unsteadily to emulate the gait of a drunken rake. Mumbo did his best to mimic him but was sure he ended up looking more like a spider with most of its legs cut off. Hopefully the people around him would be watching the fight instead of him.

They found a space near the competitor’s exit to the Ring and Mumbo cringed as a hard smack of flesh on stone elicited a roar from the crowd. They couldn’t see much, but the noise was enough to tell what was going on in the fight.

Mumbo fidgeted awkwardly in his ill-fitting coat that he’d borrowed from Grian’s hoard, wondering if it would be too suspicious if he took out his notebook. “There she is!” Grian said, smacking Mumbo’s arm to get his attention. Mumbo rubbed the spot sorely and squinted to where Grian was pointing. A new opponent had just entered the Ring, and through the huge slabs of rancid meat that hung just inside the cage Mumbo caught sight of a flash of blond hair, an angular face, and a gleaming smile.

“False! False! False! False!” the crowd roared, evidently the fighter’s stage name. The fight began and the spectators surged forwards, blocking all view of the cage. The bellowing of the crowd thundered in Mumbo’s head and he wondered uncomfortably how anyone managed to think at an event like this. But, looking around at the blatant debauchery that everyone was engaging in, from bottles to betting, no one  _ was _ thinking.

He surreptitiously slipped his journal out of his pocket and began scribbling random sentences on an empty page to calm his nerves. The noise was absolutely consuming and his heart pounded against his ribcage.

“Alright there?” a man next to him said loudly into Mumbo’s ear, and Mumbo flinched backwards so far he almost fell off his seat.

“Yes, erm, yeah,” he replied, recovering. He closed his notebook and clasped his hands in his lap to stop them from shaking. What was wrong with him? It was just sounds!

The man set a hand on Mumbo’s shoulder and motioned for him to lean in closer. His breath tickled Mumbo’s ear as he did so. “Just breathe,” he said as quietly as he could while still being audible over the shouting. “Don’t focus on the noise.”

How could Mumbo not focus on the noise? He could feel it in his chest, in his bones, ripping him apart at the seams. He trembled but tried to slow his breathing, the sound dulling to a low roar as his ears started to ring.

“That’s the ticket,” the strange man said, patting Mumbo’s clasped hands comfortingly. “The fight—” A roar obscured his words and Mumbo did his best to continue breathing through the suffocating noise. “The fight’s almost over,” the man finished, and pointed.

Sure enough, Mumbo caught a glimpse of the blonde fighter raising a hunk of rancid meat over her head and bringing it down on her opponent with a fleshy  _ whack.  _ Mumbo flinched and went back to focusing on his breathing. This was most  _ definitely  _ not the right crowd for him.

“You doing better?” the man asked gently, and Mumbo nodded.

“Thank you,” he said hesitantly, knowing he’d already blown his cover as “someone not used to this environment.”

The man smiled. “The name’s Joseph Hills,” he said in a thick American accent. “A fellow writer…?” He gestured at Mumbo’s notebook.

“I’m Mumbo Jumbo,” Mumbo replied. “Yes, I’m a writer as well. Mostly. Not freelance, though.”

Joe chuckled. “It’s good to be under commission and not out of commission. Still, it does mean there’s less time to work on personal projects, which is less than optimal.”

Mumbo nodded again, a smile creeping onto his face despite the lingering tension in his chest. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could get paid to do what we live?” he said, thinking momentarily of mechanics.

Joe grinned. “Ain’t that the dream.”

Mumbo sat in relative silence for a bit, catching snatches of the fight, and when he turned to ask Joe something else he was gone.

“This is her last fight of the night,” Grian said from Mumbo’s left. “We can catch her afterwards while she’s cleaning up.” Mumbo nodded in acknowledgement, staring at Joe’s empty seat with a furrowed brow. The crowd erupted in cheers as a sharp  _ crack  _ signalled the end of the match. False had presumably won.

“Come on,” Grian hissed, grabbing Mumbo’s arm and dragging him through the throngs of people, expertly navigating the stands. Eventually Mumbo gave up trying to avoid stepping on people’s feet and just did his best to keep up and not lose his hat in the chaos.

They made it to the back after dodging a burly guard, winding through the dark hallways until they found a battered door labelled “False Simmons.”

“Her powder room,” Grian said in a joking tone, and knocked.

“It’s open,” a sharp female voice answered.

Grian and Mumbo entered a small, Spartan room containing a hatrack, a table and chair, and a barrel in the corner. A muscular woman stood with her back to them, washing her hands in a bowl of water on the table.

“Claire Simmons, I presume?” Grian asked, touching the brim of his hat politely. 

False turned and crossed her arms, leveling him with a stony glare. “Who’s asking?” she said bluntly.

“Do excuse me,” Grian said. “My name is Axel Quail Anderson, mostly-private detective. Grian, for short. And my companion—”

“Chronicler,” Mumbo muttered.

“ _ Companion,” _ Grian insisted. “Is Levi Valentin. He goes by Mumbo Jumbo.”

Muumbo shrank away as the imposing woman turned her scrutinizing eye to him. She must not have seen anything she disapproved of because she turned back to Grian and stuck her hand out. “False,” she said.

Grian shook and Mumbo noticed him wincing slightly.  _ False must have a strong grip to make Grian the Knuckle-Crusher grimace like that,  _ he thought, struggling not to grin.

“Now what’s a mostly-private detective like yourself want with me?” False asked, turning back to the table and beginning to wrap her split knuckles in thin bandages. “Client get on your bad side?”

Grian chuckled. “Not quite. We’re looking for a certain acquaintance of yours and perhaps your lord’s.”

False stilled, whole body tensing like a coiled spring. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Grian held up his hands. “I mean neither of you any harm, but this is tantamount to the safety of the whole of London, and I believe the Tortoise L—”

False surged towards Grian and shoved him up against a wall, a knife suddenly in her hand and pressed at Grian’s throat. Mumbo moved to grab his revolver but Grian waved him off, gasping. He was balanced on the tips of his toes, holding onto False’s arm for dear life.

“Don’t speak his name here,” False hissed through her teeth.

Grian couldn't talk because her knife was flush against his throat, but Mumbo watched as he carefully eased something small and thin out of his pocket and let it drop to the floor. 

False glanced at it for a split second, not giving Grian an inch of leeway. “A scute,” she said, eyes narrowing. “How’d you get your hands on one of these? Did you steal it?”

Grian gaped, motioning for her to move the knife. She did so reluctantly, letting him fall forwards. “Half a minute,” he wheezed, trying to catch his breath. False waited, lip curling as he gasped for air. “I got it the way most of you do,” he said eventually, voice hoarse. “ _ He  _ gave it to me.”

False’s lips tightened. “And why would  _ he  _ give someone such as yourself a  _ scute?” _

“He owes me,” Grian said simply, scooting the dark scalelike object off the floor and proffering it to False. She snatched it gingerly from his fingers, examining it with a suspicious eye. It must have met her standards because she grunted and tossed it back to him.

“I don’t still don’t see what this has to do with me,” she said sourly.

“I need to get ahold of Biffa,” Grian said. “And you both work for…Xisuma.”

False raised her hand as though to smack him and Grian flinched backwards. “You think that’s any better?” she hissed, glancing at the door. “Do you know how many people would  _ kill  _ to know his name?”

“Pardon, pardon, pardon,” Grian said hastily, backing up. “I’ll try to be more cautious.”

False squinted at him, jaw clenched, but she lowered her hand. “What do I get out of this?” she asked coldly.

Grian shot a pleading glance at Mumbo who shrugged helplessly at him. “What are you in the market for?”

False looked Grian up and down before giving Mumbo the same treatment. Mumbo tried not to flinch away from her prying gaze.

“Coin, for one,” she said, letting a half-smile creep onto her face. “But I have a feeling you aren’t too well-to-do in that area.”

Grian gave her an innocent smile, shrugging.

She smirked. “In that case, any chance your connections can get me work on a ship?”

Grian beamed, his entire face lighting up. “I do believe I can do that, actually,” he said, which was news to Mumbo.

False raised an eyebrow but nodded. “Alright. What do you want, then? I have no idea where Biffa’s hiding out, if that’s what you need to know.”

Grian shook his head. “No, we just need to know where...er,  _ he  _ is holding court next. And preferably the password as well,” Grian said, motioning with the scute.

False rolled her eyes and went over to the battered hatrack, pulling a piece of paper from the pocket of a brown overcoat. “It’s in code,” she said, tossing the scrap to Mumbo who nearly dropped it. “The key is testuridae.”

Grian blinked. “Is that it?”

False shrugged. “I gave you the information you wanted. It’s up to you to actually decode it.” She put on the overcoat, buttoning it over her stained white undershirt. “Good luck. You’ll need it,” she muttered, and left Grian and Mumbo to wonder what she meant by that.

* * *

That night, Mumbo snuck out. He wasn’t planning on it and he was absolutely exhausted by the day’s antics, but he happened to glance at his watch before heading to bed and noticed it was the same time that the cats usually met on the roof. It wasn’t an exact schedule as cats will do what they please, and time definitely wasn’t an exact science in the Neath, but it was a usual enough occurrence that Mumbo decided to go on a whim. 

The cats squinted suspiciously at him as he heave himself over the rampart and onto the roof, but they didn’t leave, much to his surprise. They began to share secrets, whispered tidbits that echoed through the whole group. Most were incomprehensible and there were a few Mumbo even knew, like that scandal with the owner of Frederick's Chandlery, but he tried to write most of them down anyway.

“The Admiral’s eyes are blue.”

“The snakes grow stronger.”

“The bat is the bat.”

“The Bazaar has need of stories,” a nearly invisible ink-black cat hissed, and a rumble went through the crowd of felines. Mumbo wrote the phrase down in his notebook and underlined it, unsure of its importance, but the other cats seemed beside themselves just hearing it.

“And what have you to share, sir?” a petite grey tabby asked Mumbo softly.

“Benjamin Falkner was Jack-of-Smiles,” Mumbo murmured, and the cats nodded approvingly. A few ginger tabbies in the corner even widened their green eyes, beginning to chatter amongst themselves about Biffa.

The cats began to groom each other, discussing the day’s secrets in hushed voices. Mumbo let out a relieved sigh, leaning back against the parapet. He didn’t even know why he’d come up here tonight. There wasn’t anything in particular he’d wanted to learn, but his little notebook was now stuffed with valuable secrets and tidbits.

A battle-scarred brown tabby broke off from the groups of cats and approached Mumbo. Mumbo held his breath as the cat delicately sniffed his hand before deeming it worthy and shoving his head into Mumbo’s palm. Mumbo grinned and scratched behind the tabby’s ears.

“I’m Bennet,” the cat purred, his voice low and rough. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Mumbo Jumbo,” Mumbo replied politely. “Likewise.”

“You work with Grian, correct?” Bennet asked, sitting down next to Mumbo and tucking his paws beneath him.

“ _ For  _ him, unfortunately,” Mumbo said, and Bennet let out a hacking wheeze that startled Mumbo at first but that he quickly guessed was a laugh.

“Those poor saps over there do too,” Bennet mewed, flicking his tail in the direction of two cats deep in conversation. One was a sleek, silvery she-cat and the other was a brawny cocoa-colored tom. “Diana and Macha,” he continued. “I’m surprised he hasn’t told you about them. The reason we left the first night is because they were having a spat with him.”

Mumbo’s mouth dropped open. “I thought it was me!”

Bennet let out another wheeze. “Oh, no, no, my dear sir. In fact, you’re one of the best gentlepeople we know. That time you yelled at the fellow with the net down Kidderghast Lane? Silvia will never forget that.” He flicked his ears toward a muscular, one-eared she-cat who dipped her head toward Mumbo in recognition.

Mumbo was dumbfounded. Sure, he made it a habit of terrorizing the cat-catchers of Spite, but that was more out of principle than to win favor with the cats. “I—I had no idea,” he spluttered, and Bennet blinked slowly at him.

“Anything you need, let us know,” the cat mewed, and a few of the other cats nodded amicably at Mumbo. “Me in particular.” Bennet winked and gave a last rumbling purr before joining the other cats as they began to leisurely stretch and leave the roof one by one. Watching them disappear over the rooftops was surreal as they vanished like shadows into the night. Mumbo caught a flash of Diana’s silvery fur as she went down towards Spite, and eventually he found himself alone, high above the city.

He smiled tiredly to himself, looking down at his notebook. The meeting had gone much better than he thought. It had been nice, even. And, hopefully, beneficial.


	9. In which our heroes meet a lord of the Flit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grian and Mumbo reach new heights to consult Xisuma, one of the crime syndicates of the Flit. No particular warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how long chapters are supposed to be in fics like this and that will be my downfall. I swear its going to make this thing seem longer than it actually is even though its already a bajillion pages too long. Anyway, happy reading~

The next morning, Mumbo woke up later than Grian, which hadn’t happened once in the history of their living together. He yawned as he bustled around their tiny kitchen, nearly buttering his hand instead of a slice of bread.

“What’s up with you, sleepyhead?” Grian asked, bemused.

“Oh, nothing,” Mumbo replied through another giant yawn. “What’s the plan for today?” He was considering breaking into Grian’s stash of darkdrop coffee even though he hated the stuff with a passion.

“We have to go meet with a high-ranking crime lord who may or may not accept our presence,” Grian said, which woke Mumbo right up.

“You decoded the message from The Tortoise Lord? The meeting’s tonight?”

“Yep,” Grian affirmed. “That’s what I did this morning while you were still snoring away. The date’s today, the time’s tonight, meeting place is in the Flit above Deviltry Lane. Now all we need to do is not get killed as soon as we set foot in X’s dominion.” 

“I would very much like to remain not killed,” Mumbo said.

“That’s the plan,” Grian grumbled. “But knowing us, it might not all _go_ to plan.”

“You said you know him, right?” Mumbo asked.

Grian wrinkled his nose. “Not…really. I saved his life once and that’s sort of how we met, but I haven’t seen him in a long time and I don't even know if he remembers me.”

“So this could go catastrophically wrong at any minute,” Mumbo said with a sigh. “Fantastic. I’ll go get ready.”

Getting up to the Flit went off mostly without a hitch. The blisters on Mumbo’s hands would heal and the rope bridge could be replaced. Getting into the court of the Tortoise Lord, well, that was another story.

“I tell you, testuridae is the password! It is!” Grian insisted, gesturing wildly at a deadpan woman standing in front of the only walkway to the roof where the court was being held. The woman shook her head, not even giving him a reply.

“Maybe we should come back another day—” Mumbo started but Grian grabbed his arm to keep him from leaving.

“I’m not leaving without an audience with Xisuma,” he growled, and the guard’s eyes widened.

“You know…his name,” she said under her breath, nearly inaudible. “Go on ahead.”

Grian snorted slightly but didn’t say anything as he traipsed over the rope bridge to the roof. Mumbo followed cautiously, trying not to look down at the dark cobble a dizzying distance below him.

The Tortoise Lord was a hunched figure lounging on a makeshift throne of planks and nails, wearing a tortoise-like beaked mask and a heavy, dark hood. He was surrounded by burly men and women who were presumably bodyguards. He raised his head as Grian and Mumbo approached, motioning for his people to stand down.

“Greetings, O Tortoise Lord,” Grian said, clicking his heels together and exaggerating a salute in a ridiculous display. “We’ve come to beg a boon of you.”

The man in the mask didn’t move.

“Alrighty then,” Grian muttered. “Let’s get to the point, shall we? We know you’ve hired Benjamin Falkner to kill someone and we need to find him.”

The Tortoise Lord seemed to stare at Grian through dead eyes. “So you need information about the assassination?” he said in a deep, raspy voice after a long silence.

Grian nodded. “We won’t interfere with the act itself, we just need to interview Biffa about…something.”

The Tortoise Lord was quiet for a few seconds. “Any chance you could tell me what about?”

Grian shook his head, lips pursed. “I promise it would not be anything damning for you, and it could even benefit your interests.”

The Tortoise Lord dipped his head and motioned to his lackeys. “We will hold counsel in my room. Leave us.”

The silent people nodded and turned in unison, disappearing into the darkness as they leapt across the rooftops.

The Tortoise Lord pulled his hood down, gesturing to Grian and Mumbo. “Come on, then. Let’s talk.”

The Tortoise Lord’s “room” was actually a rooftop shack a few roofs over that was surprisingly nicely furnished. Thick red carpeting hung on the walls, either for soundproofing or insulation, and cushy chairs were arranged around a nice table. There was a small fire grate directed through a makeshift chimney that warmed the room nicely. It was such a stark contrast to the cold, rickety corners of the Flit that it nearly gave Mumbo whiplash.

The Tortoise Lord—or, rather, Xisuma—took off his mask and unceremoniously dropped it on the floor before collapsing into one of the chairs. “Well, sit down then,” he said. “Make yourself at home.” Mumbo did as he was told, studying Xisuma’s face. A jagged scar marred the centre of it, and long brown hair swept low over bright, intelligent eyes.

“So, Grian,” Xisuma said. “Haven’t seen you around much lately. Thought you’d forgotten about li’l ol’ me.”

Grian coughed awkwardly. “I wasn’t sure you’d receive me,” he said honestly, and Xisuma laughed.

“It really has been that long, hasn’t it? Goodness, me. Well, I’ll have to let my people know to always admit you and—er, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“Oh!” Mumbo exclaimed, realizing Xisuma was talking to him. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I’m Levi Valentin and I go by Mumbo Jumbo. I’m Grian’s amanuensis.”

“Pleasure,” Xisuma said, nodding to Mumbo before turning his attention back to Grian and growing serious. “So, you said you weren’t going to interfere with the assassination?”

Grian nodded. “We don’t need to. We just need information from Biffa himself, and unless you know where he’s hiding out, the assassination is our best bet.”

Xisuma narrowed his eyes. “I don’t pry into the affairs of those I hire, and I need this deed done,” he said. “It’s too valuable to risk interference.”

“This will be important to you as well,” Grian said. “I’m trying to solve a case for the city—”

“Oh, so now the _constabulary_ are involved,” Xisuma said, waving a dismissive hand. “Then I’ll have nothing to do with it.”

“You know I always do what’s right for London,” Grian said in a suddenly dangerous voice. “If you don’t tell me how to find him you will sorely regret it.”

“Then tell me what the case is,” Xisuma said, leaning forwards. He was obviously unfazed by the change in Grian’s demeanor. “If it’s so important and will do me such good, tell me.”

“It’s confidential—”

“Jack-of-Smiles,” Mumbo interrupted.

Xisuma turned to him, gaze cold. “You’re trying to solve the Jack case. Is that so.”

Grian glared daggers at Mumbo who made a point to ignore him. “Yes, I am. How many have you lost to Jack?”

Xisuma didn’t answer. He was still looking at Mumbo who shrank away slightly.

“We know the odds are low,” Mumbo said carefully. “But it’s too important to too many people to just ignore. Please.”

“Don’t _beg,”_ Grian hissed but Xisuma held up a hand to stop him.

“The Duchess of R—no, of T—of wherever is holding a soireé. Here’s the invitation.” Xisuma tossed a crisp, cream-colored envelope to Grian who snatched it and studied the address. “I’ve hired Biffa to assassinate an attendee who’s been poking around too much into my business and has found something…incriminating. As long as you don’t accost him until after the deed is done, you’re welcome to him.”

“Thank you,” Mumbo said sincerely.

“My younger brother, Evan, is recovering from a Jack incident. Solve this case, Grian.” Xisuma’s eyes were intense as he spoke, boring into the pair of them.

Grian nodded confidently. “I will.”

As they were leaving, Xisuma pulled Mumbo aside. “He’s probably going to lose himself in this case as so many have before him,” he said in a low voice. “Watch him. But most of all, watch yourself. You’re a good man. Take care of him, will you? He’s good too, he just doesn’t know it yet.”

Mumbo nodded, at a complete loss for words.

Xisuma clapped Mumbo on the shoulder and sent him on his way back across the rooftops, but his words didn’t leave Mumbo’s mind.


	10. In which there is a party, a murder, and a disagreement, in that order.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grian and Mumbo attend the gathering hosted by one Duchess of T-- no, of A--, of wherever, and have an altercation with a murderer. After returning home they find themselves under scrutiny by one of the most powerful organizations in London and have an argument about what to do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Grian gets attacked and murdered by Biffa(but comes back), and Grian and Mumbo have a pretty bad argument.

As much as Mumbo had hated the wild noise and raw energy of the Ring of Meat, the pomp and circumstance at the party for the Duchess of M—no, of L—of wherever disgusted him. He hated the rough fabric of his One Nice Suit and the high collar irritated him to no end. People mingled about, some dancing, some eating, each prim and proper and utterly, utterly repulsive.

Mumbo sipped his drink as he and Grian scanned the room, searching for warning signs of some kind or another. Grian hadn’t been incredibly clear.

“So, how long have you been in the Neath?” Mumbo asked, half jokingly, trying to fill the silence.

Grian fidgeted with his glass. “Around ten years,” he said. “But—”

“Wait, wait,” Mumbo said, holding up a hand. “You’re actually a Surfacer?”

Grian shrugged. “I mean, I’ve taken a few trips to the river so I can’t go back up, but—”

Mumbo started laughing. “I thought you were native-born like me! I thought you’d live here your entire life! You’re so comfortable down here!”

Grian started laughing too. “Wait—you’re native?”

Mumbo nodded sheepishly. “I know I don’t seem like it…”

“You really don’t,” Grian said, grinning. “You didn’t even know how to get to the Bazaar Sidestreets!”

Mumbo shook his head in disbelief. “You know, I’d say I didn’t think you did either, but I actually believed you’d made it far enough to gain access.”

Grian exaggeratedly straightened his lapels. “How dare you even suggest such a thing! I am a gentleperson of some importance, thank you very much!”

Mumbo chuckled and surveyed the room again, taking another sip of his wine. He suddenly spotted a bandaged manservant glancing around furtively and exiting quickly through the servant’s door. “Is that him?” he whispered hurriedly to Grian, who had to stand on his tiptoes to see over the crowd.

“I think it was,” Grian whispered back, and right at that moment a commotion broke out at the table the bandaged man had just served. An older man was turning purple and convulsing, his body thrashing about. Young men screamed and fainted as the ladies shouted for a doctor.

“Assassin,” Mumbo whispered, and Grian took his arm and dragged him through the clamoring crowd towards the servant’s door. Mumbo did his best to not trip over any skirts but knocked one poor rake head-on into a flower arrangement.

The servant’s quarters were in as much chaos as the ballroom. Servants ran around in a panic, stepping over dropped platters and trays. Grian seemed to know where he was going and ducked through a series of small, dark hallways until he reached a figure quickly pulling on a hat and coat at the door. 

“Benjamin Falkner,” Grian said, blocking off the man’s escape. “Or, as you’re better known, sir,  _ Biffa.” _

The man froze and shot a hard glare at Grian. Without warning, he pulled a knife seemingly out of nowhere and slashed Grian across the side of the neck in one swift movement. Grian gurgled and reached for the wound as he fell. Biffa stepped over his body, bloody knife in hand. He stared at Mumbo, who was frozen in place and didn’t even think to draw his revolver. More screams echoed from the ballroom and instead of attacking Mumbo, Biffa hopped back over Grian’s body, yanked the door open, and disappeared into the gloom. Mumbo waited a few heart-wrenching seconds before tossing his cane down and dropping to his knees.

“Grian!” Mumbo cried. The man was certainly and properly dead, eyes half closed and skin paler than bone. Mumbo quickly staunched the blood flow with his handkerchief and shoved Grian to the side of the hall. He tried to slow his breathing, but the adrenaline from Biffa’s attack and the fact that his friend was lying dead on the ground made it difficult for him to regain his composure.

Slowly, the flow of blood from Grian’s neck stopped and Mumbo removed his sticky handkerchief, cleaning his shaking hands as best he could. Was this a bad enough wound to warrant a permanent death? The very thought made his hands tremble even more as he examined the angry red slash in Grian’s neck. He thought he may have died from a worse stabbing at some point, but he wasn’t sure and couldn’t think straight enough to remember.

There was nothing to do but wait. Apparently, this particular servant’s exit wasn’t very well-known, as no one had come down the corridor to find them. Mumbo leaned heavily on the wall, exhausted as his adrenaline high slowly wore off. He watched Grian’s still face for any movement, chest still tight with fear.

He thought he could see color seeping back into Grian’s skin, so he checked Grian’s pulse on the other side of his neck. It took him a few panicky moments to find it, but eventually he found Grian’s heart beating weakly against his fingertips. “Oh, thank God,” he breathed, relief watching over him. Grian wasn’t his favorite person in the world, but he had to admit he’d grown sort of fond of his eclectic employer over the past few weeks, despite his…idiosyncrasies. At the very least he didn’t want him  _ dead.  _

Mumbo tucked his cane under his arm and put his blood soaked handkerchief back into his pocket before gently scooping Grian up into his arms. He wondered wildly whether or not he’d be able to hail a hansom while looking like he was carrying a dead body. He’d never tried that before. The idea made a hysterical laugh bubble up in his throat but he shook the thought away, instead focusing on opening the door without dropping Grian and then making his way through the gardens and back to the street.

The clamor of people had exited the building, and there was now a rush to hail as many hansoms as possible, because the upper class doesn’t walk, how plebeian of you to think so! Mumbo elbowed his way past several waiting guests, apologizing profusely. They looked at Grian with either alarmed or understanding expressions and Mumbo wasn’t quite sure which he preferred. Once he’d gotten to the front of the crowds, he nudged open the door of the nearest hansom with his foot and heaved Grian inside. “Moloch Street!” he called to the unconcerned driver, who did his best to make it out of the throngs of people in a timely manner.

Grian’s color was indeed returning and as soon as the hansom lurched forwards his eyes fluttered open. “Dear me,” he murmured. “I seem to have been assassinated.”

Mumbo would have laughed, but tears of relief were pricking at his eyes. “Yes, you have indeed,” he said instead, trying to not let his voice crack.

“Boatman’s gotten better at chess,” Grian grumbled. “I don’t suppose you caught Biffa?” He grunted as he started to push himself up to a sitting position. Mumbo leapt up to help him and immediately bashed his head on the roof of the cab. Rubbing the crown of his head in pain and adjusting his hat, he let Grian use him to pull himself upright. Grian was looking much better than he had been but he was still quite pale and the wound hadn’t completely closed.

“I did not. My apologies,” Mumbo said, and Grian sighed.

“Of course you didn't. We should have brought Iskall,” he said thoughtfully, already gaining back his energy. “Next time we’ll definitely need backup.”

“I wouldn’t have lived if he hadn’t been only trying to escape,” Mumbo said. “You know how inadequate I am in the martial sciences.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Grian said. “You did kill a spider-council that one time.”

Mumbo shuddered at the memory of the enormous arachnid abomination he’d slain in the basement of the Silken Chapel. “Yes, but that was one time. I doubt I could do it again. And flesh isn’t as flammable as chitin by far.”

Grian grinned with a flash of his old self. “You say that as though you haven’t tested that theory.”

Mumbo shook his head, smiling slightly, and rapped the roof of the hansom so that the driver halted in front of the bookstore. Mumbo helped Grian out and paid with the remaining Echoes in his purse. It was barely enough to cover the usual cost, let alone a tip, and the hansom driver spat at Mumbo’s feet. “Cheapskate,” he muttered before urging his horse forwards. Mumbo closed his eyes and sighed before turning and helping Grian into the little bookshop.

* * *

“Oh my word!” Mumbo gasped as they entered the study which was in complete and utter disarray, even worse than usual. “What on earth happened in here?” Drawers were yanked from the bureau; their contents scattered across the floor. Papers that had been on Mumbo’s desk were scattered across the room. Ink dripped from Grian’s desk where an ink pot had been shattered on top of a pile of unopened mail. All the books had been thrown from their shelves and lay on every available surface, most facedown with pages torn or folded.

“Don’t touch anything,” Grian said, already darting to his desk without hesitation and sifting through the detritus. “It’s just as I thought. The evidence box is gone. Luckily I had a lot of the contents tucked away.”

“Is anything else gone?” Mumbo asked, carefully stepping over a pile of books that had gotten knocked over. “Money or valuables?”

Grian shrugged. “That’s your problem, not mine.”

Mumbo let out an exasperated groan. “It will be your problem when we no longer have the money to eat!”

“Whoever wanted to eat money? Nasty little slips of paper, money,” Grian said with a snicker.

Mumbo rolled his eyes and checked the little safe behind the clock on the mantelpiece where they kept their meager rent savings. Luckily, it hadn’t been touched. He sighed. At least they had their last fifteen Echoes. “Who on earth would want to sabotage your investigation?” Mumbo asked.

“ConCorp,” Grian said matter-of-factly.

“How on  _ earth  _ did you kn—”

“Their  _ delicious- _ looking calling card on the coffee table,” Grian said, pointing. “You wouldn’t want to eat that.” Sure enough, a large, unassuming slice of cake sat on a blue china plate in a small circle of cleanliness in the chaos. A toothpick was stuck into it with a little blue piece of paper glued to it and a note was tucked under the plate.

“C.C.,” Mumbo read out loud. “Sure enough. But why would they want to keep you from finding Jack?”

“Beats me,” Grian said. “Maybe the note will answer some questions.”

Greetings, Misters Anderson and Valentin,  
We hope this letter finds you well and we send you our best regards during this finest of Christmas seasons. We have been informed that you are in the process of investigating a certain infamous killer who has been at large for a great deal of time and must remain so. We implore you to cease this fruitless task immediately. Failure to comply will result in Vexation beyond your wildest imagination.

We remain your humble servants,  
B. Cumberland &  
S. Goodman  
Executive Directors  
The Corporation of Conventionality

“What on earth are we going to do?” Mumbo asked once Grian had finished reading, nervously wringing his handkerchief. “Do you know how much ConCorp controls? And how little influence we hold over  _ anything  _ right now?”

Grian didn’t seem to care all that much which only made Mumbo more agitated. “Sure,” Grian said calmly. “But I’m positive it’ll be fine.”

Mumbo’s thoughts were whirling and he unconsciously clenched his fists. “I never signed up for this,” he said suddenly, surprising himself.

Grian raised an eyebrow at him. “Was being at odds with ConCorp not in your contract?” he asked, sarcasm dripping from his every word. “Oh, dear me, I do apologize.”

Mumbo ignored the sarcasm. “I mind my own business. I don’t cause too much upset. I do what I can to make a living for myself and nothing more. You? You’re trying to make a name for yourself. You’re trying to  _ be _ somebody and I can’t join you in that because you’ll do whatever it takes to get there and bring everyone down with you if you have to.”

Mumbo yanked the safe open again and took out half of the meager funds, storing them in his purse. He collected his own papers off the floor, fingers shaking with anger. “And you know what?” he shouted as he went to his room to pack his clothes. “You were never a good employer!” Grian said nothing as Mumbo carried his suitcase out of his room, just watched him fumble around to gather the rest of his things. Invigorated, Mumbo continued.

“You’ve barely given me any kind words of praise or thanks, even when I had  _ just  _ dragged your  _ dead body  _ through a throng of panicking sycophantic partygoers. You treat me like a full-time employee when you know  _ damn  _ well I don’t get paid unless I publish. I’ve paid room and board. I’ve paid for the stupid box that’s gained us nothing but threats which is now  _ gone _ and I’ve lost too much time that could have been used to write things that will  _ actually  _ put food on the table. Food that isn’t a  _ thinly veiled threat.” _ Mumbo gestured wildly at the cake. “And actually, I hope you  _ do  _ eat it. It’s probably laced with Cantigaster venom,” he spat. “Then we’d all be rid of you.”

Mumbo finally got his manuscript under control and stood up, tucking it into his coat pocket. “I’ll send you half the profits if this is ever published,” he said coldly, pausing before the door. “Rent here has been paid for the next six weeks. After that, you’re on your own.”

He stomped his way down the stairs, nearly overturning a bookshelf in his anger once he’d reached the bottom. He hailed a hansom as quickly as he could, but paused when he heard a voice.

“Mumbo!” It was Grian, calling hoarsely from the second story window. “ _ Mumbo!  _ Come back! I —I’m sorry! ”

Mumbo didn’t look up, just heaved his suitcase into the coach and stepped in after it. “Anywhere I can get a bed for cheap,” he told the driver sharply. The driver nodded his understanding and cracked the reins.

Mumbo trained his eyes on the seat in front of him, trying not to heed the desire to look back one last time at the window above the bookshop.


	11. In which there is both Vexation and verity in equal amounts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mumbo finds himself in a quite Vexing situation due to his professional relationship with Grian, and then finds himself in a perplexing situation due to the same reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mumbo gets buried alive and is stuck in a coffin for a bit so PRETTY MAJOR claustrophobia warning. Stole this plot point from Light Fingers. Also Grian has backstory and emotions or something. Not really a warning, just a heads up.

Mumbo jolted awake, forehead slamming into something hard. Why couldn’t he sit up? Why was it so dark? He squinted dizzily into the blackness but couldn’t make anything out, and when he tried to lift his hands he found his knuckles knocked against hard wood.

After a moment of disorientation, a sudden epiphany struck him.

He was in a coffin.

Alive.

Trying not to panic he pushed on the lid, harder and harder as it refused to budge an inch. It was either nailed shut or he’d been buried. Or both.

Okay. Now he could panic.

How could this have happened? He’d locked the flophouse dormitory door, triple checked it before going to sleep, and he hadn’t made any recent enemies other than —

ConCorp. It had to be. As far as he knew, no one else wanted him dead.

Er, buried alive.

He recalled the note they’d sent, something about “vexation beyond your wildest imagination?”

No. No wait. The V had been capitalized. Mumbo’s stomach dropped as he made the realization.   
_The Vexation._

Damn it! Damn it all! He’d even left Grian’s employ and they’d still come after him! Damn that man. ConCorp, or rather,  _ the Vexation,  _ thinking that they were still partners, had  _ buried Mumbo alive  _ to gain leverage over Grian. Damn it, damn it, damn it all to Hell!

Mumbo’s breathing was shallow and his chest felt constricted. He pressed on the lid again, wondering how much earth there was between him and fresh air. Grian didn’t matter. ConCorp didn’t matter. He was going to die down here. He was going to die, over and over and over, until his body finally gave up.

Tears began to trickle from the corners of his eyes as his breath began to catch in his throat. He couldn’t help it. All he’d wanted in life was to make a living and no more, maybe learn something of mechanics or the Correspondence in his free time. He’d never wanted to become someone like Grian, overflowing with ambition and hungering for prestige. Sure, he’d gone to the river enough times to not be afraid of death any more, but oblivion…oblivion scared him more than the pain. More than anything else. He didn’t want to be Grian, forcing his mark on the world, but he didn’t want to be forgotten either, dying over and over in this cursed box.

He didn’t even think anyone would look for him, and that made him squeeze his eyes shut and clench his fists, pressing his head on the lid of the coffin so hard it hurt. His editor didn’t know him personally. He had no remaining family in London. He had few close friends but Grian, and now Grian had his damned evidence so he had one less liability. There was only so much ConCorp could threaten him with and for all Mumbo knew he could have solved the damned case the very minute Mumbo’s coffin had been lowered into the ground.

The wood and darkness hungrily swallowed his sobs, muffling them even as they grew to screams. The wood was so close to his face and he wanted to claw at it, smash it apart, desperately scrape his way through the dirt, scream, scream, scream—

He coughed, starting to choke, wondering wildly how long it would take for him to run out of air and suffocate. For the first time.

Over the sound of his rasping he suddenly thought he could hear dirt shifting over the box. He strained to hear, holding his breath, clinging to the desperate hope that there was someone there. The scraping grew louder and he screamed again, voice cracking. “ _ HELP! FOR GOD’S SAKE HELP ME LET ME OUT LET ME OUT _ —”

The lid of the box shattered, only being cheap plywood, and Mumbo kept screaming as his voice gave out. He choked on the dirt raining onto him and gasped for breath as his vision swam—

Mumbo squinted into the light. It was brighter than any he’d ever seen. Was this the Sun, a light he’d never known? Or…could this be true death?

“Mumbo!” a voice said worriedly, the last voice Mumbo expected to hear.

“…Grian?”

* * *

Grian helped a shivering Mumbo out of his grave, nearly carrying the taller man out of the graveyard to a waiting cab. “You—you came,” Mumbo mumbled, unable to keep the shock from his voice. “You came. I didn’t think you would.”

“‘Course I did,” Grian said, trying to keep his tone light. “As soon as I got their letter. Couldn’t leave my writer in the dirt.” He gave Mumbo a weak smile and Mumbo stared blankly at him, wrapping his arms around himself and shuddering. The Vexation had taken him straight from his bed and hadn’t given him anything to to shield him from the winter wind. However, it wasn’t like they needed to based on their goal.

Grian wordlessly took off his own coat and gently tucked it around Mumbo like a blanket. Mumbo murmured his thanks, unable to focus his eyes on anything. He was still breathing heavily, each gasp harsher than the last.

“Try to breathe slowly,” Grian said softly. “Here.” He took Mumbo’s hand and placed it on his own chest. As Grian inhaled slowly, gradually, he motioned to Mumbo to mirror him. Mumbo tried to take a corresponding breath, raspy and shaky, but he was at least trying. He was still shaking like a leaf, but he felt himself growing calmer as they both breathed in tandem all the way to Moloch Street.

Grian helped Mumbo out of the cab, supporting him and catching him when Mumbo tripped, his cursed long limbs and the shivers throwing him off his balance completely. The stairs were a challenge but Grian wordlessly waited as Mumbo struggled his way up the steps and to his old bedroom. He barely noticed that it had been left untouched since his untimely departure.

Mumbo collapsed into the bed and Grian pulled the blankets over him, surprisingly tender. As he turned to go, Mumbo reached out and grasped his arm. “Please,” he rasped weakly. “Don’t leave yet. Please.”

Grian looked startled, eyes wide and unsure, but he nodded and sat down on the edge of the bed. Mumbo collapsed back into the pillows, letting out a breath. “How…how did you find me?”

Grian didn’t answer for a moment, fidgeting. “ConCorp sent me a letter.”

“What did it say?” Mumbo asked, more out of curiosity than anything. Grian pulled the folded piece of paper out of his pocket and smoothed it out on the blanket before reading it aloud.

Greetings, Mister Anderson,

We hope this letter finds you well and we send you our best regards during this finest of Christmas seasons. We have been informed that your investigation has not been ceased and so we have been forced to undertake measures to convince you otherwise. As such, your acquaintance Mr. Valentin may find himself in an unfortunate situation that will leave him quite Vexed, if we do say so ourselves. Should you agree to stop all Sisyphean investigative measures into this matter and return the relevant evidence, a note shall be delivered to you with his location and you may retrieve him at your leisure should you wish.

We remain your obedient servants,

B. Cumberland &  
S. Goodman  
Executive Directors  
The Corporation of Conventionality

“As soon as I sent them the remaining evidence from the box, a mess of lacre came down the chimney and extinguished the fire, followed by a heart-shaped pendant that had a blue lacquer cross on it. I thought for a minute it was the urchins again before figuring out this was their way of telling me where you were. So of course, I sped off to Heartscross Hill and bribed the undertaker to tell me which plots were newly dug. By then it only took process of elimination and a little digging.” From a glance at Grian’s hands Mumbo could guess it was more like a  _ lot  _ of digging.

Mumbo nodded slowly, brow creased. “But why?” he asked eventually. “You were home free. You had the remaining case files and evidence, you had ConCorp believing they had you in a corner, and you were close to a breakthrough with Biffa. Why sell out for…for me?”

Grian looked a bit uncomfortable. “Because it wasn’t right to leave you there. I know what the Vexation is capable of and that’s one of their favorite forms of containment. Keeps their quarry alive and safely tucked away until they need ‘em. The connection between ConCorp and the Vexation is an open secret so I had an inkling of what could happen if I didn’t do anything.”

“Would they have come back for me? If you didn’t give them what they wanted? Would they have…” Mumbo trailed off, not even wanting to think about it. “Would they have done anything worse?”

Grian shrugged. “They probably would have exhumed you at least. I mean, Cub and Scar aren’t cruel, but they’ve sent enough adversaries to the river without a thought. They could have thrown you into the Rings, to the spider pits, gave you to the devils' Hunt, drowned you in the Stolen River—”

“Yes, yes, alright, I get the point,” Mumbo said, blood draining from his face.

Grian gave him a slight smile. “My apologies. I could see how that would be upsetting. I guess I just still felt an obligation to keep you safe, despite you severing the professional relationship. It was my fault you were in the situation in the first place and…” He took a deep breath, unable to look at Mumbo. “And you’re my friend. Were my friend,” he corrected, wincing.

“Are,” Mumbo said quietly. “I think saving my life has elevated you back up to friend status.”

Grian squinted at Mumbo as though unable to tell whether or not he was joking. “How shrewd of you to say so,” he said cautiously, and Mumbo burst out laughing.

“I’m kidding. I don’t keep score like that,” he said, and Grian gave him a careful smile.

“Well…I do. Sort of. And…I think I owe you a lot.” He paused. “Did I ever tell you how I got the nickname Angry Anderson?” Mumbo shook his head, brow furrowed. “Back in my days at the university, I had a group of friends that I studied the same way one studies the behavior of animals. I ‘kept score,’ as you say. And eventually, I noticed they all worked towards their own gain. Every single one of them. And it upset me greatly. I began to lash out at them as I watched them cheat and connive, even if they didn’t know that’s what they were doing. It was disheartening. I’d lost my faith in mankind.” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. No person is an exception to the rule of selfishness, not you, not I, not the Masters in their spires, not the clergy, not the poorest church-rat.”

Mumbo tilted his head. “We do work towards our own survival, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have magnanimity. There wasn’t any purpose for you to exhume me, but you did anyway.”

Grian raised and lowered one shoulder, staring at the floor. “I guess. Still, I hate that life’s like…a chess game played with lives. I’m fine with risking my own, but selfishness that gets others killed is too far.”

“A Great Game,” Mumbo said with an ironic smile. “But that’s exactly what I’m talking about. Noticing your own selfishness and being able to help others. Compassion is as inherently human as survival instincts.”

Grian thought about this, a grin creeping onto his face. “I’m going to let you rest,” he said eventually. “Are you okay to stay here for the night?”

Mumbo shrugged. “As okay as any other night I’ve slept here. And Grian—” Grian paused on his way out the door. “—maybe hire someone to get my things from the inn.”

Grian grinned and nodded, closing the door softly.

As much as Mumbo didn’t want to admit it, he was exhausted. Being buried alive really takes a lot out of a person. He sank into the pillows and drifted off into a blessedly dreamless sleep.


	12. In which there is an anticlimactic confrontation and tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grian and Mumbo go to meet Biffa and interview him about his stint as a Jack, and then discuss the nature of Jack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular warnings!

It took Mumbo a few days to recover from the shock, and Grian was endlessly patient through all of it. Mumbo’s belongings were delivered in parts as at least two of the delivery urchins got lost or otherwise delayed. By the state of his briefcase, they’d gotten on the bad side of a handful of the Duchess’ cats.

As Mumbo got re-settled back into the flat, Grian caught him up with the state of the case. They still had no leads on Biffa, but Grian was tracking him through his network of criminal friends. In the meantime, Grian had picked up the hobby of preparing elaborate meals. Or at least, as elaborate as he could make with limited perishables. Usually they involved unidentifiable root vegetables and heavily spiced mushrooms.

“Ugh, boletus  _ again _ ?” Mumbo complained when Grian placed a steaming plate of stew in front of him. “We had boletus the day before yesterday.”

“Oh, hush up,” Grian said. “You just don’t like my cooking.”

Mumbo speared a cap with his fork. “You’re cooking’s fine. It’s mushrooms I’m sick of.”

“You’re a Neathborn and you don’t like  _ mushrooms?”  _ Grian asked incredulously, collecting the mail from the front door. “How do you even survive?”

“One bite at a time,” Mumbo said, eyeing the offending mushroom distastefully. “Anything good in the mail?” he asked as Grian surreptitiously dropped a handful of bills in the coal box, leaving him only a rough envelope.

“Oh, _fantastic,_ ” Grian said when he saw it, tearing it open. “Cleo got back to me about Biffa.” He read the letter eagerly, grinning in triumph. “Ladies and gentlepeople, we’ve got an address!”  
“That’s brilliant!” Mumbo exclaimed. “When can we go?”

He needn’t have asked. Grian was already putting on his coat.

* * *

Biffa lived on Flowerdene Street at the east end of London. It was a far walk from Moloch Street in the West, but it didn’t bother Grian nor Mumbo because of the nature of the trip.

“You have your revolver?” Grian murmured once they arrived and Mumbo nodded. “Good. I’ve got some brass knuckles and a leather tunic under my jacket. If he’s uncooperative, there won’t be any unplanned river vacations today. Hopefully.”

Mumbo squared his shoulders resolutely and Grian knocked twice on the door.

The door opened.

“Hello,” the bandaged occupant said in a much-too-gentle voice, clear blue eyes peering intelligently at them. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.

Grian blinked, hand frozen in his pocket. “Erm—my name is Axel Quail Anderson, Grian for short, and I’m a mostly-private detective. And this is—”

“Levi Valentin,” Mumbo supplied. “I go by Mumbo Jumbo. I’m his amanuensis.”

“You just like saying that word,” Grian muttered, and the man at the door grinned.

“Pleased to meet you,” Biffa said, for it  _ was _ Biffa, bedecked in bandages. Who else would it be? “I believe you already know who I am. Would you come in? I’ve just made some tea.”

Grian and Mumbo exchanged looks. Grian’s meant roughly  _ he is going to lure us in and kill us.  _ And Mumbo’s meant roughly  _ what the Hell is going on.  _ Grian’s replying look meant something like  _ we don’t have much of a choice here  _ and Mumbo’s meant  _ I’m so confused. _ This entire exchange happened in a split second and Biffa stood aside to let them both into a very small, Spartan sitting room.

“I’ll get the tea,” Biffa said. “Sugar for either of you?” Both Mumbo and Grian shook their heads dumbly.

As soon as Biffa had left the room, Grian and Mumbo started furiously whispering to each other.

“Tea?  _ Tea?!” _

“This can’t be the same man, even though he recognizes us—”

“He’d want us dead on sight—”

Biffa returned with three mismatched teacups on a battered tray and the two of them fell silent. He wordlessly handed them the steaming mugs before settling into a chair across from them.

“So,” he started, shifting the bandages on his face so he maneuver his mug to his mouth. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

Grian took a deep breath. “We’re here to ask you about an incident that occurred a few years ago, when you got arrested.”

Biffa leaned back. “Ah,” he said simply, taking a long draught of his tea. “So you aren’t after me for any of the murders I was actually hired for.” There was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, visible through the slits in the strips of cloth.

“Not as such,” Grian said. “We’re here about Jack.”

“Ah, yes,” Biffa said. “Xisuma did a lot for me, covering that up.”

“What exactly happened that evening?” Grian asked.

Biffa frowned. It wasn’t obvious, as it would be on an unbandaged person, but there was a definite downward wrinkling of the cloth. “I don’t remember.”

“It is imperative that you—” Grian objected, but Biffa held up a hand to stop him.

“I'll tell you what I know, but there's no guarantees it will be helpful. The day was like any other without a job. Laying low, bribing urchins to get off my roof, the usual. And then I woke up in a cell, covered in blood and with the door guarded by a militia large enough to be considered a platoon. I was put under observation, questioned relentlessly, and eventually released. Xisuma caught wind and shut down all investigations into what had happened so I could keep my anonymity.” He scratched the back of his neck. “It was good of him.”

“So you remember nothing of the murders? Of being Jack? Of what triggered becoming Jack?” Grian asked desperately.

“Not a bit,” Biffa said apologetically. “I’m afraid I won’t be much help in your investigation. It was years ago, and I have done my best to block out most of the memories.”

“Dash it all,” Grian muttered. “Well, we’ll be leaving then. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Thank you for your time,” Mumbo said as Grian drained his cup and stood up to leave. “And for the tea.”

“My pleasure,” Biffa said. “I’d say come again soon, but now that my location’s been discovered I won’t be seen in this part of the city for at least three months. Glad to see you’ve recovered, Grian.” He winked at the two of them, bundling them out the door before Grian could snap out a reply.

The door slammed. Mumbo was doing his best to hold in a laugh as Grian indignantly straightened his coat. “The nerve,” he sniffed, and Mumbo stifled a chuckle. “Well, that was a dead end. Guess it’s back to the drawing board.”

* * *

Grian bought a large sheet of plywood to use as a makeshift blackboard. He sat Mumbo down like he was in grade school and slashed a line down the middle. He titled one side JACK ON THE STREET and the other JACK IN THE CELL.

“What’s the difference between a Jack neck deep in murderous rage, slashing through citizens like they’re paper, and Biffa in a cell with his memory and senses about him?” Grian asked, turning around to face Mumbo.

Mumbo wrinkled his nose. “Um…”

“Wrong,” Grian snapped. He scribbled  _ has access to victims  _ under the ON THE STREET category. He whipped back around. “What else?”

“That’s not necessarily true,” Mumbo objected. “Didn’t Biffa say there were a lot of guards outside the cell?”

Grian made a face and added  _ easy _ between  _ has  _ and  _ access. _ “That's a fair point. Oh, also, street Jacks can move around.”

“True,” Mumbo said. “Could free area be a factor?”

“We need to consider all possibilities,” Grian said.

Mumbo began to sift through the remaining scattered evidence that Grian had consolidated onto the coffee table, painstakingly copied from the papers in the evidence box. His eyes caught on a recreation of the note about Biffa’s capture and release. “Weapon confiscated…Grian, have we studied any weapons taken from the bodies of Jack?”

Grian furrowed his brow. “Not yet, there weren’t any in the box.”

“That’s the difference between the two Jacks,” Mumbo said, voice rising in his excitement. “One has a knife and one doesn’t.”

Grian snapped his fingers. “You are absolutely correct. Well _done_. We should go see Iskall.”


	13. In which there is quite a revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grian and Mumbo learn something shocking after examining some of the weapons used by Jack and confiscated by the constabulary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!MAJOR SPOILERS ABOUT THE JACK-OF-SMILES CASE!!! Do not read if you plan on playing the storyline yourself on the Fallen London website!!!  
> (other) Warnings: Grian momentarily becomes Jack.  
> Short chapter today. We are rapidly approaching the point where I am going to have to actually write again. HOO boy.

Iskall was out when they arrived at Concord Square, but Grian cajoled one of Iskall’s colleagues into leading them to the evidence vault. “Thank you,” Mumbo called after the man as he left, but the constable seemed to deign Mumbo unworthy of a reply.

The knives were stored in several cabinets, and Grian immediately began rooting through the boxes, all meticulously labeled with a date. “All varied in age and material, none very expensive or high quality.” He picked one up at random and turned it over in his hands, running his fingertips over the handle. “Tip broken off. Handle’s worn. Not too sh-sharp,” he said quietly to himself, voice catching slightly. Mumbo noticed Grian’s expression growing dark and a horrible grin was spreading across his face.

“Blood…” Grian murmured, seemingly involuntarily, and several things clicked together in Mumbo’s mind all at once.

“ _DON’T TOUCH IT!”_ Mumbo bellowed, knocking the blade out of Grian’s hand and sending it clattering across the floor. He raised his cane to knock Grian back in case he aimed to follow it, but Grian just blinked dazedly, shaking his head slowly before stumbling into Mumbo. Mumbo stood frozen in place, breathing heavily. “He’s in the knives,” he gasped out. “Jack’s in the knives.”

“Dear me,” Grian gasped out, stumbling a bit into Mumbo. Mumbo caught him as he clutched at Mumbo’s coat to regain his balance. Mumbo was a little startled because Grian didn’t often lose his composure, but Grian seemed genuinely shaken by the experience.

“Much obliged,” Grian murmured as he straightened, staring at the knife with eyes still wide with fright. Mumbo exhaled and nodded in acknowledgement.

The weapon sat menacingly on the floor and Mumbo reached out with his cane to nudge it. It didn’t leap at him or even move at all, but he still felt tense. “I think…I think we shouldn’t touch it anymore,” he said, and Grian heartily agreed.

* * *

The knife was securely locked in a metal box sitting on Grian’s desk, a dark scar on the masses of papers. Grian was splayed out facedown on his thinking couch and Mumbo perched on the arm, taking notes in his journal.

“The knives are Jack,” Grian said into the couch, voice muffled. “And they control the person holding them and cause all the murders.”

Mumbo nodded even though Grian couldn’t see him.

“So there isn’t just one Jack, but many…” Grian said, trailing off. “What would make someone do this? What’s their motive for killing so many random people?”

Mumbo shrugged. “Sheer pleasure? Pride? Power?”

Grian shook his head, mashing his face into the cushion. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t KNOW! It was set up to last a long time and cause a lot of damage very slowly. They only circulate through the poorer areas of London, so only the poor are targeted. None of those knives were upper-class quality.”

“Perhaps a war of class then?” Mumbo ventured, but Grian shook his head again, resting his chin on his hands and furrowing his brow.

“Why make it so drawn out and inefficient? It doesn’t make any sense!” He groaned, letting his face fall back onto the cushion. “I’m missing something. We need to figure out where they’ve come from, and if there’s any more coming into London.” He scrambled to his feet, startling Mumbo into almost falling off of the arm of the couch. “Salt’s tears!” he cried. “We need to tell the constabulary! How many Jacks have been involuntarily created due to improper handling of evidence?”

Mumbo almost dropped his journal. “Blimey! I didn’t even think of that!” he exclaimed.

“I wonder how long it’d take them to figure it out themselves…” Grian said thoughtfully, smirking. “Dilettantes.”

Mumbo gasped in mock horror. “You’re awful,” he said, tutting as he went to fetch his hat and coat.

Grian cocked his head like a bird, grinning. “Am I? Yes, I suppose I am, sometimes. Well, awful or not, we can’t have blood on our own hands, so we might as well let them know.” He pulled on his coat and picked a hat seemingly at random before hopping down the stairs two at a time. Mumbo followed, shaking his head in exasperation.

* * *

“So you’re telling me that Jack-of-Smiles, _the_ Jack-of-Smiles, the subject of many penny-dreadfuls and the most feared serial killer of our day, is actually a collection of sentient knives?” Iskall said, mystified.

“Yes,” Grian said, tilting his head. “Isn’t that what we just told you?”

Iskall leaned back in his chair and adjusted his monocle. “I mean no disrespect but it’s a little hard to believe.”

“They’re probably Polythreman, if that helps any,” Mumbo added.

Grian shot him a shocked glance. “How on earth did you deduce that?” he said with a dumbfounded expression.

Mumbo shrugged. “Where else would sentient knives come from?”  
Grian blinked. “Of course,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I would have gotten that eventually.”

Iskall and Mumbo exchanged a glance. “You could at least say ‘well done,’” Mumbo muttered, rolling his eyes and Iskall stifled a snort. Grian’s ears reddened and he ducked his head.

“My apologies,” he murmured. “Good catch.”

Mumbo beamed proudly.

Iskall leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. “The constabulary’s collection of confiscated weapons probably has many Jacks in it. I can get the boys on sorting them and let you look in on them if you like.”

Grian nodded. “That would be helpful. Don’t handle them for more than a few seconds at a time, and have multiple people watching whoever’s handling them.”

Iskall looked grave. “Of course. This is serious business. I’d hate to lose any of our men to this, but I believe it’s necessary. I’ll call on you when we’re done.”

“Thank you,” Grian said. “You’re doing a public service, Iskall.”

Iskall smiled sadly, looking into the middle distance. “So are you...still, that is my job, is it not? Good to see you two. Wish it was a better occasion.”

Grian saluted and Mumbo shook Iskall’s hand. “Until next time.”


	14. In which an apology is received

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scar drops by and apologizes for the Vexation's actions and the crew meets up for the next step in the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of talk about what happened to Mumbo a chapter or two back and Grian's PISSED. Other than that no particular warnings. Sorry for the short chapter, the next one will be MUCH more exciting. I promise.
> 
> ALSO it's my birthday tomorrow and it would be really great if you left a nice comment about the fic! ;w;

While Iskall wrangled the constabulary and cut through the red tape, Mumbo started on a new manuscript entitled “The Incredible Case of the Body-Swapping Serial Killer.” Grian disliked the name and often bothered Mumbo about changing it, but Mumbo quite enjoyed its flowing wordiness.

He was working on the manuscript the day the bell rang signalling that there was someone at the front door. Mumbo followed Grian downstairs to answer it, jumping at the opportunity to be free of editing for a moment. He didn’t recognize the man at the door after Grian opened it, but Grian definitely did.

“Scar Goodman,” he growled, stepping between Scar and Mumbo, making Mumbo blink in surprise.

Scar winced, taking a step back. “I just came to deliver an apology, From me and Cub.”

“You buried him alive and left him for dead,” Grian hissed, and Mumbo was shocked at the sheer rage in his voice. The man was shaking like a leaf in the wind in his anger. “This had better be good.” He didn’t seem intent on inviting Scar inside so he just stood awkwardly on the front step, shin deep in lacre and fidgeting anxiously.

“It wasn’t…it wasn’t our idea,” Scar said haltingly. Grian’s eyes narrowed to slits and Scar threw his hands up. “That doesn’t excuse it, I know, I know! It’s just that…the Masters ordered us to. They don’t want anyone learning the truth about Jack.” He glanced around furtively. “I could get fired for this. Or sent to the river. Or worse. But what we did…it just didn’t feel right. I’m glad you’re safe,” he said tentatively to Mumbo, who winced and dropped his gaze to the floor.

“No thanks to you,” Grian spat. “If that’s all you have to say, get off my porch and never show your face around here again.”

Scar tipped his hat sadly. “I truly am sorry. And so is Cub. He would have come but he’s in a meeting with Mr Wines and Mr Spices today. I bid you good day.” He turned to leave.

“Wait,” Mumbo said, surprising himself.

Scar turned, surprise etched on his feathers. “Hm?”

“I accept your apology,” Mumbo said, making direct eye contact despite how painful it was. Grian glanced back at Mumbo but didn’t comment, just gave him a terse nod. "I understand you were in a difficult situation." 

The corners of Scar’s mouth turned up slightly. “Thank you,” he said. “Truly.”

Mumbo dipped his head. “Give Cub my regards.”

“I will,” Scar said, and left, tipping his hat again.

Grian shut the door a little harder than he normally would and ushered Mumbo back upstairs. “I don’t know how you can forgive that man,” he seethed. “I mean, it’s your business and all, but don’t count on my going out for tea with him any time soon.”

Mumbo grinned slightly. “You don’t have to. And to be quite frankly honest I won’t be going to tea with him either.”

Grian threw his hands up in exasperation. “Yes, but that’s understandable while I personally have no quarrel with him!”

“Grian, it’s okay to be angry on my behalf,” Mumbo said placatingly. “Just don’t go out seeking revenge on two of the most powerful people in London.”

“I most certainly won't,” Grian said with a sigh. “And I’m happier than a rat in a pantry that you’re alright, but that is not something I will forget at the drop of a hat.”

Mumbo quirked an eyebrow but didn’t remark on Grian's expression.”As long as we don’t get on their bad side again it’ll be fine. Think on the positive side. We have a probably deadly piece of pretty blue cake growing stale in the kitchen!”

Grian snorted, shaking his head. “Leave it to you to make a joke out of this whole situation.”

“Without light there is no darkness,” Mumbo proclaimed, making Grian laugh aloud.

“There’s the struggling writer we know and love.”


	15. In which someone spends too much time caring about ascots and Joe Hills is there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> something something zee journey something AAAAAA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I MESSED UP IT'S ALL GOOD NOW
> 
> Thank you for the kind comments on the last chapter!

Later in the week, Iskall called on Mumbo and Grian to supervise the sorting of the knives. It went well, all things considered. No constables were permanently murdered and Constable Fleury was said to recover in a week’s time. Grian carefully observed the proceedings, but on the last day Mumbo could tell he was getting antsy.

“There’s only one thing left we can do,” he said seriously to Mumbo once they’d returned to Moloch Street. “We have to go to Polythreme to investigate.”

Mumbo dropped his notebook in shock. “Wh—Polythreme?” he spluttered, fishing his notebook out of a puddle of lacre.

Grian nodded gravely. “The trail in London ends here. We have to go to the source.”

Mumbo blinked, distractedly trying to wipe the ammonia-smelling wetness off of his gloves. “When would he leave?” he asked, desperately trying to wrap his head around Grian’s declaration.

“As soons as possible,” Grian replied, clapping his hands and dragging Mumbo inside. “Get packing.”

Mumbo groaned but hurried off to his room, wringing his hands anxiously. What did one even bring on an expedition to a place where everything was alive?

Despite Grian’s insistence that they should leave as soon as possible, it took him much longer than Mumbo to prepare. Mumbo sat on his couch, watching Grian dart around like a bat, snatching up things seemingly at random and adding to a rapidly growing pile of trunks and valises at the base of the stairs. 

“Weren’t we supposed to be going soon?” Mumbo asked as Grian tossed another suitcase down the stairs, not waiting to hear it thump down into the bookshop.

“We have a few hours before everyone’s supposed to meet us,” Grian said breathlessly. “So I’ve got some time to decide on which ascots to take.”

“Ascots?” Mumbo repeated incredulously. “No one’s going to see you! You don’t need ascots!”

“But what if we need to go to a fancy party?” Grian whined.

“In  _ Polythreme?” _ Mumbo asked, dumbfounded. “Are you mad?”

“You never know!” Grian protested. “However…” He peeked downstairs at the mountain of luggage. “...I may have overdone it.”

“You think?” Mumbo said, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t bring anything more than you can carry because I sure won’t be carrying anything for you.”

“Fine,” Grian sighed. “I’ll leave the disguises at home. I doubt I’ll need to pretend to be a constable. But I’m bringing the captain’s hat.”

Mumbo rubbed his temples as though he had a headache, not replying as Grian began to drag a few cases back upstairs, debating with himself whether or not he’d need things. The sheer amount of clothing the man owned staggered Mumbo, who had a fair sized wardrobe himself. However this, this was just excessive.

Eventually Grian had whittled down his luggage to a manageable size and he hailed a hansom, bundling Mumbo and all their luggage outside before locking the door behind him.

The trip to Wolfstack Docks was short, and within no time Mumbo and Grian were unloading and rolling their trunks down the dock toward a small ship.

“There she is!” Grian cried. “What a beaut! She hasn’t been out since my last jaunt to the Tomb-Colonies a few years ago, but I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

Mumbo eyed the ship sceptically. “She looks seaworthy—er, zeeworthy…” he said haltingly.

“She most certainly is!” Grian said proudly. “With luck, we’ll be back by Christmas. Oh, looks like False has already boarded.”  
Sure enough, a plume of blonde hair streamed in the breeze like a flag as False poked her head over the side of the ship. “Hiya!” she called, waving joyously. “Glad I could join you! I don’t know quite how to work this thing, but how different can it be from a pistol?” She laughed and smacked the huge gun mounted on the front of the ship.

Mumbo waved back and tried not to worry too much about what she was saying. “Who else is joining us?” he asked Grian.

“Stress, Iskall, Maddox, my mortician friend Cleo, and Ren,” Grian said, ticking them off on his fingers. “Cook, first mate and mechanic, two doctors, and a helmsman. And False is the gunner, of course. And we all help you with the ropes and such.”

Mumbo held back a hysterical laugh that bubbled up in his throat. It all just sounded like a bad joke. ‘A mailperson, a constable, a Seeker, and a detective all board the same ship…’ On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t a joke. Maybe it was a murder mystery.

“Oh, what the Hell,” Mumbo muttered under his breath and followed Grian up the gangplank.

* * *

Mumbo set his bags on the floor of his tiny room and sat down on the creaky cot that took up most of the floorspace. He sighed, resting his head in his hands. What on earth had he gotten himself into? He’d never taken a foot off the shore and now he was on a ship! Bound for Polythreme of all places! A few months ago if someone would have told him he’d be embroiled in a case to solve the greatest mystery of London he’d have laughed in their face! Well, probably not because that would be rude, but he’d at very least recommend them to the Royal Beth.

Mumbo placed his hat on the small bedside table bolted to the floor and ran his fingers through his hair. He decided to go for a walk to familiarize him with the ship and maybe meet some of the crew he didn’t know yet. The ship had just left port and he wobbled unsteadily on his feet as the ship jolted with each chuge of the engine.

“First time, eh?” a pale woman with wild red hair asked as she rounded a corner.

Mumbo nodded, trying to not be embarrassed.

She grinned slightly. “You’ll be fine in a few days.” She stuck out a hand. “Cleo Fasse.”

“Mumbo Jumbo,” Mumbo replied, shaking her hand and meeting her too-black eyes. Her grip was surprisingly strong and her palm was cool. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Cleo said. “I’m off to speak with the cap’n. See ya ‘round.”

Mumbo dipped his head and watched with jealousy as she strode confidently toward Grian’s cabin.

The ship was a maze of staircases and hallways and Mumbo got lost quite quickly. He found himself stumbling deeper and deeper into the ship and the rooms grew darker and darker the further he went. Eventually he ended up at the bottom of the ship in the hold where barrels of fuel and crates of supplies were stored.  _ Well, this certainly isn’t the right way.  _ He turned to leave when he heard a loud, breathy sound. He squinted back into the darkness.

“Hello?” he said cautiously into the empty room. No reply.

_ Just a rat,  _ he thought to himself, heart pounding in his ears. He spotted a plank of wood near the door and snatched it up, just in case.

The strange noise grew louder as he moved towards a pile of empty sacks and Mumbo raised the plank over his head.

“Hey!” a voice cried, and two hands came up out of the sacks in defense.

Mumbo paused, brow furrowed. Why did that voice sound familiar?”

“...Joe Hills?”

Joe, for it was indeed Joe who had been snoring, untangled himself from the burlap sacks he had been apparently sleeping in. “At your service,” he said in a chipper voice, snatching up his hat from the sacks and tipping it in Mumbo’s direction.

Mumbo let the plank of wood fall to the ground. “What the  _ Hell  _ are you doing here?” he asked exasperatedly.

Joe shrugged nonchalantly. “Change of scenery. Thought I’d hitch a ride.”

“You stowed away on a ship bound for Polythreme?  _ This  _ ship? W—out of all ships—!”

Joe shrugged again, grinning. “Serendipity,” he said. “Now before you have to bring me in by force, would you please take me to your leader?”

* * *

“Am I correct in saying you don’t have any right to be on my ship?” Grian asked Joe once he’d kicked Mumbo out of the room. Grian’s lips were tight with anger and his gaze bored angrily into Joe.

“I am a stowaway, yes,” Joe said. He was lounging on a crate in Grian’s room like he was on a seaside vacation. “But I have something that might be of interest to you.”

Grian raised an eyebrow, tapping his foot impatiently. “It better be something that’ll make me  _ not  _ dump you on the next godforsaken rock we see so you have to flag down a random ship and hope it’s not a Gaider’s Mourn scout.”

Joe grinned and pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket, clearing his throat as he began to read. “I, Axel Quail Anderson, owe the owner of this paper one favor due to borrowing their writing materials. This favor is up to the discretion of the owner of this paper and can be redeemed at any time.”

Grian rolled his eyes skywards, blinking rapidly. He remembered writing that, he remembered the street poet he’d given it to that had probably been Joe. He didn’t remember. Even if it wasn’t, Joe now owned the paper, and either way it meant Grian had lost the argument and by Joe’s expression, he knew it.


	16. In which tHE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE S

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE--*coughs* anyway. The crew has to pass the Dawn Machine, a dangerous false-star out on the zee. Mumbo is severely affected by it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for weird...mind control ish...Dawn Machine fuckery. This is what the altered state of mind tag warning is about so uh. Just read with caution. I took some liberties with what the Dawn Machine does because it's my fic and I get to write the angry godlike machine star entity...thing.

Joe quickly adapted to his new status as crewmember, cheerily offering to stay in the hold if Grian wanted. Grian begrudged him a small space in the crew’s quarters and Joe thanked him graciously, making himself at home near his hammock.

Cleo found the whole situation frankly hilarious and the rest of the crew learned she and Joe apparently knew each other well. The two joked loudly in the galley together, making the others laugh at their familiarity.

The ship steamed on towards Polythreme.

The following days were pretty uneventful. Mumbo figured out how to navigate the ship, avoided Maddox, learned a bit about the engine from Iskall, and worked on his writing.

Grian, on the other hand, paced in the same room as anyone who could stand it. He was growing more and more anxious and everyone could tell. Eventually Mumbo caved and asked him about it.

“There was a recent Alteration,” Grian answered, wringing his kerchief. “I fear the Dawn Machine may be closer than I originally expected.”

Mumbo blinked. “Dawn Machine…?”

“Yes, Mumbo, the Dawn Machine!” Grian snapped, swiping at some zee-spray on his face. “It’d been getting stronger, too, which makes me all the more nervous.”

Grian placed his hand on the deck railing and quickly yanked it back. Bright sparks were pinging off the metal and yellow-orange spots of light swam in his vision. 

“Dawn’s Edge…” Grian murmured, staring at the dancing sparks. “Everyone get downstairs!” he yelled.

Everyone met in the galley and Grian stood tensely, worrying at the cuffs of his imitation navy jacket. “We’re at Dawn’s Edge,” he said without preamble. “We’re going to need to pass by the Dawn Machine. It used to be that you could zail by unscathed save for a few sparks and lingering lights, but now…” He shook his head. “Take a blindfold.” Grian began passing out strips of dark cloth, hands shaking slightly.

“Shouldn’t we all stay below deck if looking at it is harmful?” Doc asked, gingerly holding the blindfold as though it might bite him.

Cleo shook her head, tying her strip around her forehead for easy accessibility. “As many of us as possible need to be on deck to keep each other accountable and steer away from the machine itself. It can be quite…compelling.”

Grian started pacing again. “We should have stopped with the New Sequence. We should have bargained for safe passage.”

Cleo raised an eyebrow. “They usually let people pass without payment. Don’t tell me you’ve gotten on their bad side.” Grian shot her a pained smile and she sighed exasperatedly. “Don’t know why I’m surprised,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

A rumbling sound echoed through the whole ship and everyone in the room grew still. “We’re almost there,” Grian murmured. “All hands on deck except Iskall and Ren! Ready your blindfolds!”  
Everyone ran upstairs except for the engine crew, and as the air grew warmer the deck erupted into chaos. With no helmsman, False rushed to take the wheel, doing her best to hold the ship’s course. Without a heading it was all she could do to keep them going in a straight line. Doc, Stress, and Cleo stood on either side of the ship, shouting instructions up to False. Mumbo stood awkwardly, trying to stay out of the way as Grian dashed around, trying to be everywhere at once.

An aurora of golden light burst over the horizon.

“Cover your eyes!” Grian screamed, voice cracking. Everyone’s hands immediately flew to their face as the unnaturally warm light erupted across the zee.

“It  _ is  _ closer than usual,” Grian breathed. “The Treachery—”

Mumbo gasped, fingers still on his blindfold.

That light.

That brilliant, glowing light.

Like light he’d never seen… 

— _ tHE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE _ —

His heart pounded in his chest as he moved, dreamlike, towards the prow of the ship, closer to the light.

— _ SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE S _ —

—his lips parted slightly—

—light kissing his face—

— _ the sun the sun thE SUN _ —

—powerful, consuming, strong thoughts that weren’t his—

—thoughts that weren’t his—

The world grew brighter as they sailed closer and closer to the Dawn Machine, approaching it at a steady pace. 

“Does everyone have their blindfolds on?” Grian cried. “Mumbo?”

“Mumbo?”

_Mumbo…?_  
— _E SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SU_ —

Mumbo was frozen, knuckles white as he gripped the railing. His eyes were wide and he was unable to move or blink for fear of missing a second of this fantastic, beautiful sight. The interlocking loops of shining bronze metal, circling around like clockwork. The reddish, glowing center. The clicking, the clanking, the rhythm he felt deep in his chest, that reverberated through the whole ship like a song.

— _ UN THE SUN THE SUN T _ —

He didn’t feel when Grian grabbed his arm, but he noticed when he was pulled away from the railing. He fought back as Grian placed his hand on Mumbo’s face, trying to pull the blindfold down and Mumbo twisted away, and Grian was yelling from far away, but echoey and distant and—

“MUMBO!”

He didn’t recognize the sound, didn’t register it as his name. He had a new purpose now. The light—he no longer needed to be up here, near it, it was inside him, it  _ was  _ him—

—down the stairs without a thought—

—sound behind him, desperation?—

—machine, machine, this is what he needed—

—beautiful machine, materials for the Dawn—

Mumbo didn’t hear Ren behind him, blindfold lifted just enough to see him, a heavy wrench gripped in one hand.

And Mumbo’s world went black; bright, golden black.

* * *

“You’re sure he looked directly at it?” Cleo murmured.

Grian nodded silently, unable to tear his eyes away from Mumbo’s pale face. “He was standing stock-still at the prow with his blindfold up.”

Cleo’s mouth thinned to a grim line. “We’ll have to see how he does when he wakes up. It will be difficult. The Dawn Machine…doesn’t affect people in consistent ways. It all depends on how he reacts to it. From what I know, he’s not a bad guy, yeah? So he could be fine. We just don’t know.”

Grian collapsed into a nearby chair, heaving a deep sigh. Cleo patted him on the shoulder and they both watched the gentle rise and fall of Mumbo’s chest until Stress called them to dinner.

* * *

They zailed for a full day before Mumbo’s eyes fluttered open in the dark room. Grian was dozing in the chair next to the bed. The ship was quiet.

For a few seconds, Mumbo just breathed. He stared up at the metal ceiling and felt the gentle movement of the ship. But he couldn’t stay like that for long.

Something was wrong.

He sat up slowly, suddenly realizing one of his wrists was chained to the bedpost. He tugged at it. This was wrong as well, but not as wrong as the biggest…wrongness he felt.

_ “Grian,” _ he hissed, voice tense.

Grian woke with a jerk, eyes widening when he saw Mumbo sitting up. “Mumbo! You’re awake! Wait…what happened to your eyes?”

“My…my eyes?” Mumbo murmured, reaching his free hand to his face. He could still see fine… “It doesn’t matter. Something’s wrong.”

Grian furrowed his brow. “You’ve been out for a whole day now. Are you…are you well?”

Mumbo shook his head, tugging at the chain again. “Something is wrong. Something is  _ wrong.  _ Lawless.  _ Uncontrolled.” _

Grian held his hands up placatingly and stood slowly. “Can you tell me what?” he asked.

Mumbo’s lips pressed into a thin line. “No. I don’t know. Something.”

He froze suddenly, turning to face Grian. Slowly. Deliberately.  _ Those eyes, oh those eyes…  _

Mumbo sniffed sharply. “Blood on the wind.” His voice was dull and shapeless.

Grian stared at him for a minute before carefully making his way to the door. “I’m going to go get Cleo. Don’t do anything dumb.”

Mumbo stared back at Grian, expressionless. “I will follow the same path I always will follow. I never change. The world shifts around me and I am the stationary point on which it turns.”

Grian blinked. “Um. Sure. Just…don’t let it be a path that gets you hurt, alright?” With that he left, taking the stairs two by two to Cleo’s cabin.

* * *

Grian dragged a half asleep Cleo down to Mumbo’s room only to find that he hadn’t moved at all since Grian had left him. His bright, orange eyes bored into them and Cleo’s tiredness quickly gave way to unease.

“Figured out what’s wrong,” Mumbo said plainly. “We’re going the wrong direction.”

Cleo nodded, carefully approaching the bed. “How do you know that?”  
“I am a wagon wheel in a worn track. I am a bird following an ancient migratory route. We all follow patterns. This one is out of sync. This pattern is _wrong._ This ship is going the _wrong direction._ ” Mumbo spoke through gritted teeth, not blinking.

“Might need to check our heading,” Cleo muttered to Grian and he shot her a surprised glance.

“The sky is sick,” Mumbo said, raising his fiery eyes to the ceiling. “The Judgements will fall.”

“The…what?” Grian asked, brow furrowed with worry.

Mumbo’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t know. Why don’t I know?” He sat up ramrod straight, hands trembling. “No, no, no, this is the way of things. I don’t know. That is good.” He relaxed back into his bed, mouth twitching upwards.

Grian pulled Cleo aside, away from Mumbo’s orange gaze. “He’s definitely touched by Dawn,” he said, and she nodded grimly.

“Clearly. He shouldn’t be a problem though, he’s a good chap. He’s still himself, just…” Cleo pursed her lips. “He’s aware of patterns,” she said eventually. “Law and chaos. But it’s skewed toward the Dawn Machine. He won’t recognize it now that we’re away from Dawn’s Edge but he’s going to be a bit…odd, for a while at least. Once the discomfort passes he’ll be calmer, but if it stays this bad you might want to leave him at the Grand Geode—”

Grian’s eyes flashed with anger. “No. I’m not leaving him with  _ them.” _

Cleo shrugged. “Understandable. He’ll reject it just fine. Also the chains? Completely unnecessary. Take ‘em off. Being Dawnstruck doesn’t change who a person is, just gives ‘em the conscience of a very angry machine.”

Grian nodded, worrying at his scarf. “How long until he’s better?”

“I can hear you,” Mumbo said from behind them and Cleo rolled her eyes.

“We know you can,” she snapped at him and Mumbo shrank away from her, choosing instead to resume staring at the ceiling and mumbling under his breath.

Cleo turned back to Grian with a fake, serene smile on her face. “About two weeks to fully reject it,” she said. “At the very least.”

“We’ll be on our way back to London by then,” Grian said, heaving a sigh.

“I know,” Cleo said. “But at least here you can’t lose track of him. A Dawnstruck roaming the streets is a recipe for trouble, especially if the Admiralty learns about him.”

“Thanks,” Grian said in a low voice. “I’ll stay with him tonight. Can you go tell Iskall and False to check our course?”

Cleo nodded, hesitating a second before awkwardly patting his shoulder in what she presumably thought was a comforting manner. “It’s not your fault,” she said. “He’ll be okay.”

Grian’s mouth twisted but he didn’t say anything as she left.


	17. In which the crew gets help to not be lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kakujo is there(written by solar)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular warnings! Might be taking a break on updating after this chapter depending on how the next few days go for me, I'll let y'all know
> 
> huge thanks to iamsolarflare for writing Cocky Jo for this chapter!

Startlingly enough, Mumbo had been right. Iskall had accidentally taken the wrong heading and they were at least ten degrees off course and had been for a while. With no markers out in the blank expanse of dark zee, no one had any idea where they were. And, to make matters worse, a distant ship was approaching from behind and making everyone more nervous than they already were. Iskall gauged it would meet them in less than an hour at its current speed. False readied herself for a fight, polishing and loading the deck-mounted gun.

The ship came into view—a zee-clipper, all hydrodynamic points and angels—and began to slow as it approached, leaving swirling water in its wake. Whatever the ship’s captain wanted from them, it was clearly not a race or a fight. In fact, what with the fact the clipper had swung about nearly in front of their ship, it was probably something either vital or very inconvenient.

A head poked up from below deck—a man with wild, fluffy black hair in a loose ponytail, waving wildly with one arm as he raised his voice to carry across the waves. “ _ HEY! You look lost!”  _ he yelled with far more volume than was even remotely necessary.

False squinted across the gap between their ships, trying to judge the man’s intent. “Oi, Grian!” she called. “Are we still lost?”  
Grian popped out of his cabin, glancing over. “No, of course not, why would we—yeah, we’re totally lost.”

“ _ SURE ARE LOST!”  _ False yelled back to the other ship, trying to outdo the man’s enthusiasm.

“ _ DO YOU WANT HELP BEING NOT LOST?”  _ the man bellowed back, cupping his hands around his mouth to project his voice even more.

“ _ THAT’D BE GREAT!”  _ False screamed, voice cracking as she pushed her vocal cords to their limit. Grian winced, covering his ears.

“Alright then!” the stranger said in a perfectly normal tone. “Wait—you’re False Simmons, ain’tcha? Huh!”

False blinked at the recognition. “Sure am. Who might you be?”  
The skimmer pulled a little closer as the man onboard squinted at everyone gathering on the deck, cocking his head to the side. “Lesse, you’ve got a Black Ribboner and some detectivey man on deck. You’re goin’ to Polythreme, right?”  
“Yes,” Grian said smoothly, coming up next to False. “May I ask how you know so much about us?”

The man shrugged. “She’s famous in the underground circuits and you’re dressed like something outta the cover of a novelette. Ship’s not hoity-toity enough for Dilmun, so you’re an amateur detective.”

Grian glanced down at his much-too-clean faux navy getup. “Amateur?” he muttered, raising his eyebrow. “Maybe so,” he said, louder so the man could hear him. “You said you knew we were going to Polythreme? Do you know how to get there? We’d do it ourselves, but the damned Alteration—” He heaved a sigh. “Anyways. Can you help us?”

The man grinned. “Could do it with my eyes closed, seein’ as that’s the trip I make most often! I’m actually headed there right now, gonna visit a friend. Had to leave her there for a bit ‘cause we didn’t quite get along all too well at first. Maybe she’s mellowed out.”

“Huh,” Grian said, shooting a glance at False who only shrugged in reply. “Well. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, may we tag along?”

“Sure! Oh, and I’m Jonathan Kannon by the way. Folks there know me as Cocky Jo, so if you get any trouble with a bouncer or somethin’ tell them I sent you? Anyway, onwards!” Kannon grinned even wider, practically beaming.

“His nickname fits him,” False muttered and Grian snickered.

“He could be able to hear you, you know,” Joe said, appearing suddenly behind the two of them.

Grian nearly leapt out of his skin, startled. “Storm’s voice!” he swore, quickly trying to regain his composure, clearing his throat. “He wouldn’t tell us about it if he didn’t like it,” he scowled, but Joe just smiled.

“Thanks for your help!” Joe called across the gap. “Seeing as none of these ding-dongs seem inclined to thank you!”  
Grian opened his mouth, about to protest being called a ‘ding-dong,’ but decided against it. “False, go tell Iskall to follow this guy. Hope we’re making the right decision.” False nodded and took off.

Kannon, for his part, simply shot the group a thumbs-up before slipping back below deck, clipper almost immediately going from a standstill to what would be any other ship’s full clip but was probably only half his vessel’s speed capability.

“False!” Grian yelled. “Tell Iskall to step on it!”

“That phrase won’t be invented for another sixty years!” False called back over her shoulder before racing below deck to the engine room.

Kannon was already waiting on the docks when they finally made it to Polythreme, looking extremely unbothered by the hubbub of the animate objects around him and idly fiddling with a well-polished but very old-looking revolver. Grian’s ship had done its best, but for the most part they had been setting course based on the wake left by Kannon’s ship. Grian led a small crew ashore, all of them awkwardly adjusting as their clothes began to fidget and squirm.

“Sorry ‘bout that! I get near here and the boat doesn’t know its own speed,” Kannon explained, as though that was a completely rational thing to say in any circumstances ever.

Grian blinked, trying to not be outdone by the man’s nonchalance. “Of course,” he said, wrestling with his scarf. “We got here, and that’s what’s important.” He paused, wincing. “Is there any way we can…repay you?”

“Nope! I was headed this way anyway, like I said. Never hurts to help someone out.” He cocked his head to the side. “You’re not planning on wearing that scarf your whole visit, right? It’s got some unnatural exuberance by the looks of it.”

Grian sighed with relief before struggling to pull his increasingly hyper scarf from his neck, holding it out at arm’s length as it wiggled impertinently. “Nope, nope, definitely not,” he said, glaring at the offending article of clothing. “I’ll be leaving this on the ship. The coat’s on thin ice, though.” He glanced back up to the ship, thankful he didn’t have to go bother Mumbo for his wallet. Again.

“Thank you again,” Joe piped up, startling Grian.

“Joe, didn’t I tell you to stay on the boat?” Grian snapped, massaging his brow.

“Yes, but I didn’t listen,” Joe said cheerily.

“Evidently,” Grian said under his breath. “But yes, thank you, Mr...er...Kannon?”

“That’s me,” Kannon said, tapping his chin. He was completely unbothered by his now animated clothing. “Say, I know False from her running the circuits, but who’s the rest of your crew? Always good t’know a few more faces.”

“Well, not everybody’s shoring leave…” — _ Mumbo’s eyes, glowing, coruscating _ — “...but yes, False is our gunner. This here’s Joe, resident annoyance—”

“Stowaway,” Joe said with a grin. “A change of scenery is always good for the soul.”

“Yes, stowaway,” Grian said, rolling his eyes. “Ren and Doc stayed onboard to wrassle the engine, Stress here is a recovering mailperson, Iskall’s a lawman without the law—”

“So really he’s just a man,” Joe interjected.

Grian huffed, fiddling with his buttons which were twitching worryingly. “—and our doctor, Cleo, stayed onboard with my colleague who got touched by Dawn.”

Kannon grimaced. “Yeah, that’ll put you away for a bit. Sure they’ll recover though, ‘s not like it’s _ usually  _ permanent. I’m just lucky I’ve got Gunn here to tell me when to avoid it.” He brandished his revolver. “Keen instinct on the guy. Annyway, nice t’meet you lot!”

Grian exchanged a bewildered glance with Iskall.  _ Gunn?  _ “Erm, nice to meet you too, sir...do you have business to attend to? We’d hate to keep you,” Grian said, trying to stay cordial.

The man shrugged. “I can afford to take my time showing people around, but if y’want me to shove off I’m perfectly content with that as well.”

Grian glanced around furtively before pulling Iskall aside. “Do you think we can trust him? He seems knowledgeable about the place and we don’t even know what we’re really looking for.”

Iskall furrowed his brow, obviously thinking hard. “It’s your case so it’s your call. We could use the help but I don’t want to be led astray. Especially here.” He gestured vaguely at the meandering clothes colonies, the quiet clay men, the general  _ noise  _ of the place from the chattering houses and the shrieking cobblestone.

Grian’s lips thinned to a tight line but he turned back to Kannon. “Do you know any place that makes knives? Er, the living kind? For export?”

Kannon raised an eyebrow. “Right. Amateur detective. I need to go near there and sort things out with that friend of mine. Ever seen a silk scarf try to stab people? It, uh, doesn’t work. She was real frustrated about that.”

Grian blinked. “Huh. Well. Erm, lead the way, then!”


	18. In which morality is discussed and the fate of Jack is sealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grian interviews the person running the workshop where Jacks are created and has to make a difficult decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG BIG BIG JACK SPOILERS!!!! SO MANY JACK SPOILERS!!!!! THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING!!!!!  
> I paraphrased a lot of the original stuff so it's not EXACTLY the same as the story, but it does HEAVILY spoil it.

Kannon led them to a dark, quiet part of Polythreme. The buildings were nearly silent, only occasionally murmuring to each other. “Here we are,” he said, stopping in front of a cutler’s. “If you need anything, give me a shout. I’ve got to go deal with a little miss Jack wannabe a few streets over. Best of luck!” Kannon waved, leaving with more energy in his step than Grian thought necessary.

“So this is it?” Iskall asked, approaching the building with no caution. 

“Wait,” Grian said, making Iskall pause. “It’s the middle of the work day. No customers. Isn’t that...strange to you?”

Iskall rolled his eyes. “This place makes Jacks. Of course there’s not going to be anyone here.” 

“But nobody _knows_ that,” Grian said, brow creased. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s go.”

There was a man honing a knife on a pale stone in a bowl of water. He looked up and smiled cheerfully when he heard the small group at the door. “I don’t usually do work for locals but if you give me a minute I’ll be right with you.”

Grian eyed the knife in the man’s hand. “Do you have somewhere private we can talk?”

The man grew serious and set down his tools. “Yes, of course. There’s a storage room in the back.”

The cutler led the small group into a cramped storage room, pulling a few crates away from the wall to serve as makeshift chairs.

He needn’t have bothered for Grian. Given more than a few square feet of space, he could pace like the best of them. Immediately he began asking the cutler a myriad of questions.

“When did you start working here?”

“Where did you hear about the opportunity?”

“Is there anything unusual about your workshop or tools?”  
Grian peppered the man with question after question with Joe throwing in the occasional unhelpful inquiry such as ‘what is your favorite color’ and ‘do you exercise often.’ The poor cutler did his best to keep up, and Grian scribbled down note after note in debatably legible script on a few singed scraps of paper. 

“He’s not lying,” Joe said helpfully when Grian paused his interrogation to take a breath.

“How would _you_ know?” Grian snapped.

The cutler cleared his throat awkwardly and Grian shook himself. “Pardon my…indecorum,” Grian said through his teeth, glaring at Joe. Joe smiled back at him pleasantly.

“How can he have never become Jack?” Iskall murmured to Stress, who shrugged by way of an answer.

“Jack?” the cutler asked. “What does he have to do with me?”

Grian sighed. “The knives that have come from this workshop are Jack-of-Smiles. When people pick them up, they become Jack and go on a rampage. We’re…not entirely sure why.”

The cutler stared at him for a moment and then suddenly slumped over on his crate-chair in shock. “I…I had no idea,” he managed. “I’ll leave right away. I can’t believe this.” The man picked at his sleeve dejectedly. “I heard stories about this place, but I didn’t think…”

“What stories?” Grian asked, whipping out his notes again.

The man passed a hand over the blackened stone. “A family lived here before me. Humans, like us. The man was a honey addict. Someone told him in his dreams that his wife was disloyal. His body came back before he did, and he…” The man inhaled sharply. “He took a match and burned them. Burned them all. And he burned the life from the house too, they say, and something else supposedly resides here,” the man said. “I guess they were right.”

“Can you give us a moment?” Grian asked, pulling his friends into the front room. The cutler barely acknowledged them.

“Might be above your paygrade, but you see what you have to do here, right?” Joe asked.

“Oh, do tell,” Grian said, rolling his eyes.

“You have to choose whether to destroy this place or figure out who was behind all this.” Joe was strangely serious, not teasing like he usually was then talking to Grian.

“Don’t I have any other choices, O Janus, god of crossroads?” Grian asked sarcastically.

“I’d listen to him if I were you,” Iskall said. “If you go after the person in the dream, they might move the workshop. If you destroy the workshop, they’ll definitely know and you’ll never know who started all of this.”

“I say destroy it,” Stress said earnestly “You ‘eard Iskall, there’ll be more Jacks if you don’t.”

“But we’ll never know who was behind this,” Iskall interjected. “And they could do it again. Or something even worse.”

“Can you all stop being so damned reasonable for a second?” Grian hissed, massaging his temples. He began to pace again, occasionally stopping to reprimand his shoes for tripping him up. He groaned aloud, face twisted like he was in physical pain. “Choices!” he cried. “It’s always the bloody moral choices.” He rounded on his three companions, making a chair scoot anxiously out of his way. “You think I should destroy the Jacks forever,” he said, pointing to Stress. “And you think I should find out who did it.” He pointed at Iskall. “What about you, Joe? You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet.”

Joe tilted his head. “For once, it’s not my place to speak. This is your decision, your case. I know what _I_ would do, but that’s not necessarily what _you_ would do.”

Grian growled in frustration. “I really hate you, you know that?”  
Joe grinned. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Grian squeezed his eyes shut. “What would _Mumbo_ do?” he muttered, straightening upright and curling his upper lip as though imitating a mustache. “Right then,” he said in a terrible impression of Mumbo.

“Has he checked in to the Royal Beth recently?” Stress hissed to Iskall.

Iskall shrugged, struggling to hold in a laugh. “He has his methods. Whatever works, eh?”

“It would be really impressive if he grew five inches and actually had a mustache,” Joe commented, sending Stress into a fit of giggles.

“You are _not_ helping over there,” Grian snapped. “I know what Mumbo would do. He’d want to destroy the Jacks so nobody would die from them again. No more smiles in the streets.” He heaved a sigh and took off his twitching hat, running a hand through his hair. “But I’m not Mumbo.”

***

The cutler luckily kept stringent records and kindly donated them to the cause. Grian toted several documents and a thick ledger back to the ship and immediately locked himself in his room after giving Cleo strict orders to not let anyone inside. The crew were allowed to shore leave, but nobody really left the ship other than Stress for a few supplies and Joe to sightsee and commit acts of tourism.

Two days later, with everyone nearly at their limit, Grian emerged with dark circles under his eyes and an answer.

“Veilgarden,” he said. “We go back.”

They cast off and were on their way.


	19. In which zeecrets are revealed and friendship happens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mumbo has his writing reviewed by Cleo for remaining Dawn, and then takes a tour of the ship with Grian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: talk about Mumbo being Dawnstruck again(a lot), and Grian has feelings or something

The orange in Mumbo’s eyes was gradually fading. The flecks of gold in the whites were gone and the warm brown of his irises was slowly, slowly encroaching on the edges.

He spent his days wandering the ship, talking with Joe, writing, and staring at nothing.

“It’s so dark. Why is it so dark?” he’d ask forlornly, and no one could give him a satisfactory answer.

“He’s actually doing quite well,” Cleo confided in Grian. “He’s rejecting the Dawn Machine at a fast rate.”

“Isn’t that fairly unusual?” Grian asked, and Cleo nodded.

“It’s quite the phenomenon,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “The New Sequence would probably love to know how he’s doing it.”

Grian wrung the end of his scarf. “They don’t know about him, right?”

“He’s safe,” Cleo said, nodding. “You didn’t announce you were approaching, and you didn’t dock at the Grand Geode. They won’t have any record of you.”

“Good,” Grian said with a sigh of relief.

“I know a good surgeon who could take it out,” Cleo said carelessly. “The Dawn, I mean. Cut it right out with a sharp knife. Sadly, she’s not the doctor on this ship. I am.”

Grian looked askance at her. “What are you suggesting?”

Cleo laughed, the whole head-thrown-back-mouth-open affair. “Nothing at all. He should be fine by the time we reach London, no surgery required. Once you’re away from the Machine itself and you don’t accept its ideals, it starts to leave you alone.”

Grian squinted at her for a minute. “Well, thank Salt he’ll be okay. You’re a lifesaver, Cleo.” He was so relieved that he nearly hugged her, but he didn’t think Cleo was much of a hugging person.

Cleo quirked a smile. “By trade? No, not particularly. By hobby? Pretty much.”

Grian rolled his eyes and left her to it.

A few days after that, Cleo skimmed Mumbo’s latest writings for any remaining signs of the Dawn Machine’s influence. She and Joe had arranged to meet Mumbo occasionally to stamp out all remains of it. “Is this…an insulting poem about mushrooms?” she asked bemusedly, glancing up at Mumbo. Joe read over her shoulder, snickering at the clever rhyming of ‘fungal’ and ‘disgruntle,’ even though it wasn’t perfect.

Mumbo leveled her with a dull stare, folding his arms. “I hate them,” he said flatly. “And they’re all anyone ever has to eat in the entire damn Neath. And there’s not much to write about, out here in this void of salt water and darkness.”

Cleo laughed, suddenly and brightly, handing the paper to Joe. “Nothing about patterns, suns, _or_ revolution. Do you remember much about the Dawn?”

“It was certainly bright,” Mumbo said thoughtfully. “Beautifully so. Warm. Enticing.”

“And how did it make you feel?” Cleo asked, choosing her words carefully.

Mumbo considered this for a minute. “Expectant,” he said eventually. “Comforted, and expectant of a great change.”

“Ah, yes,” Joe said, rolling his eyes. “The New Sequence’s plan for a perfect London. A perfect Neath, actually. Could you imagine a world swathed in light, all people under control of it? No rational thought, no choice, only whatever law that clanking lamp could come up with?” He shook his head. “I much prefer a dark London. It provides a brilliant opportunity for photography.”

Cleo looked either like she wanted to laugh or strangle Joe and all Mumbo could do was blink. “Huh,” he said. “I definitely didn’t know _that._ ”

“It wouldn’t want you to,” Cleo said, pinching Joe so hard he yelped. “Does the player want a pawn to know it’s to be sacrificed?”

“I guess not,” Mumbo said, shrugging. “I don’t know much of what the Dawn’s up to nowadays as it is.” He tapped the side of his head. “Got these damn lamplights as a keepsake, at least.”

“Yeah, those might stay for a while,” Cleo said. “But the good news is they might land you a job at the Admiralty.”

Mumbo furrowed his brow. “Wh—why on earth—”

Joe snorted. “Secrets, zee-crets, everyone’s got them. Share too much and they become common knowledge. That’s a little tidbit Cleo picked up at zee and _said she wouldn’t tell anyone.”_

“Oops,” Cleo said, grinning guiltily. “New Sequencers in the navy, who’d have thought?”

Joe and Cleo began to bicker about zee secrets, or ‘zeecret,’ apparently, so Mumbo excused himself. He was feeling decidedly less cold and empty than he had been the past few weeks. He still found himself staring wonderingly into his shaving mirror occasionally, marveling at his bronze irises, but he wrote that off as curiosity as opposed to Dawn.

“Mumbo?” he heard from behind him. He turned to see Grian peeking out of his study. “What are you doing out here?”

Mumbo shrugged. “Going for a wander. Cleo and Joe are arguing about things I don’t understand. Care to join me?”

Grian blinked. “Are you…okay?”

“As okay as I’ll ever be, as long as I never have another damn mushroom for as long as I live. Come on.”

Grian trailed after Mumbo as he took a leisurely tour through the ship, greeting everyone he saw. “Nice to see you up an’ about,” Stress said with a grin as they passed the kitchen, and Mumbo shot her a wink.

“Mumbo! Couldn’t stay down, eh?” Iskall said when they passed the smoky engine room.

“Takes more than a fake sun to keep me out of your hair,” Mumbo joked, and the two of them laughed before Mumbo continued upwards onto the deck.

“So you’re really back,” Grian said haltingly.

“I was never gone,” Mumbo replied. “I remember pretty much everything. Oh, also, you chained me to my bed? _Seriously?”_

“I didn’t know how you’d react to the Dawn!” Grian protested.

Mumbo rolled his eyes. “Here you are pretending to be Mr. High-and-Mighty zee captain of the brass buttons and jaunty cap and you don’t know _anything_ about the Dawn Machine?”

“Well then _enlighten_ me, Sir Dawnstruck,” Grian said, folding his arms.

“It’s sort of like a rat taking a ride in your coat, but the rat is comforting and glowing and it makes you see the laws of everything laid out in front of you like an unchanging map. And if you take the rat _out_ of your coat, it takes a long time and it gets really dark but you get over it. Oh, and it makes your eyes change colour.”

“Huh,” Grian said blankly. “Wasn’t expecting something comprehensible. Or something so…creative.”

“You’re welcome,” Mumbo said brightly, squinting up at the false stars.

Grian inhaled, worrying at his too-bright buttons. “Mumbo, I’m sorry for bringing you into all this,” he said, looking at his shoes. “You were just some random writer at the top of a list I got a hold of and now I’ve dragged you through figurative Hell and back.”

Mumbo furrowed his brow. “Are you kidding? These months have been some of the most exciting in my life. I’ve met some incredible people and also Doc. Do you know how boring it is to be a writer? It’s all blank pages and editors writing you stern letters.”

Grian didn’t react. “But you’ve been buried alive and Dawnstruck and threatened and—”

“Grian,” Mumbo interrupted, and Grian looked straight up into Mumbo’s gold-hazel eyes. “You _rarely_ apologize, even more rarely to me _._ Are _you_ okay?”

Grian laughed loudly. “Oh, Salt, I’m so tired. Took me three days to decipher the damn ledger and I’ve been so worried about you and we got lost on the way here, not to mention the glim-fall the other day that damaged the hull and…it’s all just so _much._ ”

Mumbo furrowed his brow. “Maybe you’re the one who should be seeing Cleo.”

Grian waved a hand carelessly. “I’ll be fine. I just…really appreciate you staying around after all this.”

“Sure thing,” Mumbo said. “You’re my friend.”

“Oh, stop, you’re going to make me sappy,” Grian complained.

“...and I haven’t gotten ‘paid handsomely’ yet,” Mumbo finished, making Grian snort.

“Good to know the Machine didn’t burn out your sense of humor,” he grumbled. 

“Alright, alright, I won’t take the mick,” Mumbo said with a laugh. “Come on. I want to go see if False has actually gotten to use her gun yet. I’m surprised she hasn’t started taking potshots at rocks yet.”

“Oh, she has,” Grian sighed as they started up towards the deck. “And every single vaguely dark shadow. Thank Storm we have so much ammunition or we’d have to lock it up to keep her away from it.”

Mumbo snickered. “To think all she wanted was to be on a ship and you can’t even find her a pirate-frigate to shoot at. Poor thing.”

Grian laughed, relaxing fully in relief. He still cringed whenever he saw those bright, bright eyes, but right here, right now, on the way back to London to finally bring Jack-of-Smiles to an end, he found peace in knowing at the very least he wasn’t going alone.


	20. In which a fearsome fight takes place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A great zee beast attacks the ship, and the crew bands together to take it down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy No Content November! Have a content.  
> False finally gets to shoot something, so there's that. Only warnings are potentially weird eating stuff(Cleo is a Monster Hunter, after all) and I mean. There's a giant eel attacking the ship. Nobody gets hurt though, so, enjoy!

The alarm bell rang one evening during supper, startling everyone so badly that most of the crew spilt their zzoup. False was the first one out of her seat, racing above to where Iskall was keeping watch. Grian and Cleo were close on her heels, as both of them used to emergencies at zee.

“There!” Iskall cried when they came on deck. “Over on the port side!”

The crew raced to look and Cleo was already squinting through her spyglass. False was at her gun, peering into the dark waters below.

“What did you see, exactly?” Grian asked Iskall.

Iskall’s visible eye was wild. “A zee-beast,” he breathed. “I swear I heard it scream like a woman.”

False yelled in triumph as she spotted the sleek shadow darting just below the mirror-dark waves. Grian sent Ren to man the glim-lamp at the bow and he aimed the light towards the shadow just as the thing launched itself from the water towards the ship.

The beast was long and pale and faceted like a gem with huge, glowing eyes. It shrieked, high and piercing, baring a maw of wedge-shaped razorlike teeth and in a flash it was gone beneath the ship.

“EEL!” Grian screamed, which was an odd thing to scream, but in his voice and in the situation he got his point across. 

Stress screamed and Ren swung the lamp around, searching for the eel, before the entire ship jolted to the side. Everyone but False, Iskall, and Cleo lost their footing. Mumbo instinctively grabbed Grian who was standing next to him and they both tumbled to the deck. Grian barely reacted and just scrambled to his feet and helped Mumbo to his. His eyes were huge but he dusted himself off and called to False to fire when ready.

_ As though she wouldn’t  _ without _ orders, _ Mumbo thought, grinning to himself. The creature hit the ship again, and there was a sound like metal tearing.

“Doc! Iskall! Ren! Engine!” Grian cried and the three left their posts and raced belowdecks. Cleo rushed to take Ren’s place at the lamp.

False shouted and the cannon fired, making the deck shake. The creature let out another scream and it really was strikingly human. It chilled Mumbo’s blood.

Joe took the helm without anyone asking him to, taking False’s shouted directions to avoid the eel. Grian glared at him but didn’t tell him to stop because he was actually doing a decent job at steering. The hull made an awful ripping noise like the ceiling itself had cracked open, and any minute Storm himself would descend upon the Neath. The engine let out a guttural roar that rumbled through the whole ship and Grian sucked in a panicky breath.

“Mumbo!” he yelled over the sound of the eel’s cries and the harsh retort of the cannon. “Go help Iskall!”

Mumbo immediately dashed belowdecks to the engine room, tossing his coat and hat on a bench and rolling up his sleeves. It couldn’t be too different from the diagrams, right?

The engine room was filled with thick smog and Mumbo coughed, using his handkerchief to cover his mouth. “Iskall!” he cried, choking on the word. The engine was noisier than usual, clanking and hissing like a particularly angry printing press.

“Here!” he heard Iskall call from somewhere in the back. Mumbo followed his voice and found Iskall holding a panel of metal over a large dent in the wall as Doc bolted it down. There was no hole, but the eel’s attack had weakened the spot and it’d be safer to patch it.

“Go check the engine,” Iskall said through his teeth. Doc gave Mumbo a terse nod of recognition, probably the nicest he’d ever been.

Mumbo rushed back toward the engine where a grimy Ren was desperately shoveling coal into the furnace and the pistons were making a dreadful noise. Mumbo snatched up an oil can and gave the pistons a once-over, being less careful than he usually was. He checked the pressure gauge and he winced at how low the needle was. It was a miracle they were still moving at all! They had enough coal to at least last till London, but much farther than that…well, they might need a tow. They’d stocked well when they left, but hadn’t accounted for the, ah, detour.

Ren leaned on his shovel as the gauge gradually began to rise into healthier territories. “Go see what’s happening up on deck, I can watch the fires,” he wheezed. Mumbo gave him a nod and took the stairs two at a time back abovedeck.

He emerged to the sound of cheering. False and Cleo were hauling the dead eel onto the deck, huge hooks embedded in its side. False had the biggest smile on her face and almost laughed at her overjoyed expression. He turned away as the two women began to gleefully butcher the beast, and approached an exhausted-looking Grian sitting dazedly on a bench.

“It’s dead,” Grian said breathlessly, as though he couldn’t believe what he was saying. “The damned thing’s dead.”

“Sure is,” Mumbo said, sitting next to him on the bench. “Well and truly so.”

There was a sudden yell behind them and he whipped around to see False driving her knife into the eel’s skull as it thrashed about, spilling black blood onto the deck.

“Maybe not  _ that  _ dead,” Grian said with a chuckle. “Guess we’re having eel-steak for dinner tonight. How was the engine?”

“Pressure was a little low because I think Ren accidentally almost let a fire go out while Doc and Iskall took care of a weak spot in the hull,” Mumbo said. “But we’re back to full function now.”

“Good to hear,” Grian said. “Always nice to know that my ship is working.”

“You and Cleo have been to zee before, right?” Mumbo asked. “Oh, and Joe too, I think.”

Grian nodded. “Cleo was a captain a few years ago, zailed for a long time. Why she came back to shore I’ll never know, but we’re lucky she accepted my offer for a last voyage. It’s not that I don’t trust Doc as a doctor, but I don’t trust Doc as a doctor.”

Mumbo chuckled, imagining Doc yelling him out of his Dawnstruck haze. “That’s fair.”

“Joe was Cleo’s first mate and wrote up her port reports for her. Heard from the survey office that his reports were always the most hated because they were consistently off topic.”

“Yep, that sounds like Joe,” Mumbo said with a grin.

Grian leaned tiredly against Mumbo and the two sat there for a quiet moment, staring out at the dark sea. The only sound was the fleshy noise of the butchering behind them and the gentle waves lapping at the metal hull.

The creature ended up producing a good number of dark, oily steaks that the crew tore into with gusto. Stress had gotten creative with her seasoning, and if they just forgot about the fact that the thing had nearly killed them all the meal wasn’t half bad. Mumbo couldn’t be sure, but he thought Cleo might have eaten hers raw. He didn’t ask, however, because he didn’t particularly want to know.

The crew went to bed that night full and happy, well deserving of a long rest.


	21. In which there is an intervention of sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grian pushes himself before the crew docks, determined to solve the case before they even dock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Zain, why didn't you put more of this in earlier chapters? Didn't you plan to do that in your second draft?  
> I mean yeah I PLANNED that and that would be better storytelling but did it happen?
> 
> Nah.
> 
> Anyway, warnings for Grian is bad at self care.

There were ragged cheers as the lights of Wolfstack Docks came into view in the distance, nearly a day and a half after the death of the eel. Grian could have cried with joy at the starlike lights of the docks. None of his previous zee trips had been as taxing as this one.

The rest of his trip he swore to finish puzzling over the damn ledger. The rest of the documents were fairly useless: the lease of the building, the names of the previous owners(now long dead), and a grocery list. The ledger, however, was a veritable endless pool of knowledge.

Grian had methodically torn the poor book apart and taped pieces of it to his wall. They would be docking in around a day and he needed to reassemble it. Still, no harm in doing a little more research…

He continued where he’d left off, recording all instances of one “M. Thornbury’s” purchases that were probably completely unrelated in any sense. He did it anyway. No stone left unturned, after all.

He stretched his cramping fingers and surveyed his makeshift desk. The ledger had unraveled into a surprising amount of paper that was now not only cluttering up his workspace but was also literally wallpaper at this point. It all felt a little overwhelming, the mess all around him. When he first started it made sense; a way to see more evidence and hopefully it would make it easier for him to make connections he would be able to by flipping through an irritatingly constricted ledger. Not only were a few select pages on display, but also arranged into thin stacks on most available surfaces, including his bed, his luggage, and the rickety chairs he’d stolen from the galley.

It was entirely possible he was overcomplicating everything and the answer was right in front of his nose--

There was a knock at the door. Grian ignored it. The person knocked again, more insistently. Grian ignored it more insistently.

“Grian, open the door,” Iskall said exasperatedly.

“Bit busy,” Grian said to the paper he was writing on.

“Fine,” Iskall said. The door banged open as though it had been kicked, causing Grian to end his line of notes in a scribble.

“Iskall!” Grian complained. “Ink doesn’t grow on trees!”  
“I know how hard it is to milk a squid,” Iskall said with a smirk. “I’m supposed to check on you.

“You’ve checked,” Grian said shortly, beginning a new list. “Move on.”

Iskall did not move on. Instead, he shuffled a stack of papers(instances of bulk orders over 50 units) off a chair despite Grian’s protest and saat down. “Mumbo’s worried about you,” he said without preamble.

“He’s always been high strung,” Grian scoffed, scrubbing at his eyes. The text was blurring for some strange reason. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Cleo’s worried about you too. And Stress. And Ren. And--”

“I get the point,” Grian griped.

“Why aren’t you up in the galley? Everyone’s celebrating.”

“I’ve got to finish my work,” Grian said, extending his hands to the walls, the bed. “I can end this. This case has been open for too long as it is.”

“You really need to take a break,” Iskall said. “Have you slept at all since we left Polythreme?”

“Couple’a winks,” Grian muttered, averting his eyes.

“Grian!” Iskall chided. “That isn’t healthy!”

“I’m fine,” Grian snapped. “I’ll sleep when we reach shore.”

“Then you better pray we get there soon,” Iskall muttered. “And you won’t, no matter how much you tell yourself you will. I saw you during that fight with the eel. You looked dead on your feet. You’re going to push yourself until the Jack case is solved or until you’re losing chess against the boatman.”

“Not sleeping never killed anybody,” Geian said. “Maybe sent ‘em to the Royal beth a few times, but--”

“Oh, like that’s so much better,” Iskall said, rolling his eyes and leaning back in the squeaky chair.

“Marginally!” Grian protested, making Iskall laugh. He stood up and went to Grian’s bed, yanking the blanket off with a flourish. The stacks of pages and notes were thrown into the air and fluttered to the ground like flakes of lacre.

“Damn it!” Grian yelled, shooting to his feet. “I’ll have to spend days getting that back in order--” He fell to his knees and started scrabbling at his notes.

“Days you don’t have,” Iskall said gently, putting his hands on Grian’s. “We’ll dock at noon tomorrow.”

Grian groaned, slumping against his chair. “Now that Mumbo’s got you on my case I won’t get any rest,” he complained.

“Actually, we’re hoping for the opposite,” Iskall said, gathering up the fallen papers and tapping them neatly on the desk. Grian rolled his eyes and pushed himself to his feet, helping Iskall. Soon, the deconstructed ledger and all his pages of notes were neat stacks of paper tied into packets with twine, ready to be packed away.

“No more working on this until you get home,” Iskall said, wagging a finger at Grian.

Grain sighed. “Fine. But I hope you and Mumbo aren’t getting any satisfaction from this.”

“Oh, not a bit,” Iskall said, suppressing a laugh. He ignored Grian’s glare as he folded up the blanket, tossed it back onto the bed, and left.


	22. In which the crew disembarks and Mumbo gets appreciated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone says their goodbyes and leaves for different parts of London. Our heroes end up back at home and get some well needed rest. Mumbo meets some cats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSITIONAL CHAPTERS GROSS AND TERRIBLE AND AAAAAA  
> sorry for the short update, we get into the Real Big Jack Spoilers next chapter!!! No particular warnings.

Stress somehow managed to scrape together a large London-y breakfast of the least wormy of the remaining biscuits, marmalade, salt herring, and tea with the last of the sugar. The crew finished eating just as Ren rang the bell on the deck to signal they were ready to dock.

False and Iskall were the first two on shore to help secure the mooring before letting the rest of the crew disembark.

Everyone was already packed so everyone got to leave as soon as they were docked. Mumbo was one of the first ones out, and he drank in Wolfstack Docks in all its rundown, damp glory. “I could kiss the ground,” he said as he took his first few steps onto dry land.

“Don’t. You’ll get dirt in your mustache,” Cleo said as she passed him, grunting under the weight of a trunk on her shoulder. “Been nice getting to know ya, Mumbo. Hope your sun problem stays manageable.” She shot him a wink and walked jauntily down the docks towards Ladybones Road. Mumbo tipped his hat in her direction and went back up the gangplank to help the others unload.

Stress stood on the dock and passed out a few spore-toffees she’d squirreled away, clearly reluctant to leave. “It’s been the most exciting time I’ve had all year,” she said almost tearfully. “I know they need me back at the office but I’d rather kiss a sorrow-spider than go back.” She shuddered. “And I’d very much not like to do that.”

“Call me if you need a cannoneer,” False said to Grian as she passed, clapping him on the shoulder so hard he stumbled forwards a few steps to keep his balance. He gave her a pained smile and she laughed, walking off with Iskall and Stress towards Spite. The rest of the goodbyes were rushed, but Joe somehow managed to slip three separate copies of a mailing address into Mumbo’s coat pockets, one of which had the postscript ‘in case,’ another with ‘you need,’ and the last one said ‘something.’

Mumbo and Grian were the last ones to leave the ship. Mumbo gave the ship a last glance as the hansom they hired started to move, and he swore never to return to zee.

When they finally arrived at Moloch Street, Mumbo tipped the cab driver and helped Grian unload their luggage. Grian fumbled with his keys as he unlocked the door.

Mumbo smiled slightly as a wave of dusty air from the bookshop washed over him. He dropped his trunk as soon as he got it up the stairs and made a beeline for his couch, not even bothering to unpack. He flopped face down onto the cushions, letting out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t even bothered that his hat fell off.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Grian quipped, dragging his own luggage to his room.

Mumbo groaned into the couch cushion, turning just enough to be heard. “I just got back from blood  _ Polythreme.  _ If you don’t let me take a  _ short  _ vacation I’ll abscond with some other mostly-private detective who doesn’t go gallivanting off to faraway lands without even a week’s notice!”

Grian laughed. “Fine, fine. We can’t do anything more until I work out who commissioned the knives anyway.”

“Good,” Mumbo said into the couch. “I’m not moving for a  _ week.” _

That night, as Grian snored away like a freight train in the room across from him, Mumbo snuck out to the rooftop again. The old, rusty ladder creaked worryingly as he climbed onto the roof, but Mumbo’s step was sure.

The cats were already gathered, and most didn’t even react to his presence. A few nodded in acknowledgement at him and Mumbo waved back shyly.

Bennet bounded over to him from where he’d been deep in conversation with Diana. Mumbo sat down as he approached so as to be on a closer level with a cat.

“Everyone’s been abuzz with news about the Jack case,” Bennet purred, apparently pleased. “You got a Black Ribboner, a constable, a former captain, a Seeker, and how many other myriad folks on a ship bound for Polythreme! It’s been the talk of the alleys! Not to mention everyone’s been clawing apart newspapers and magazines for your writing. It’s a phenomenon!” He let out a hacking wheeze of a laugh.

Mumbo grinned. “Never thought I’d be the subject of cat gossip.” Bennet blinked slowly at him in the approximation of a smile. Mumbo leaned back against the parapet, staring up at the false-stars. Bennet curled in his lap, purring like a freight train. Mumbo felt his eyelids grow heavy and the whispers of the cats grew distant as he dozed off.

When Mumbo awoke, the streetlamps were just flickering to life and the cats were long gone. Not even a hair belied the fact that earlier that night they had gathered and spoken about the darkest secrets of the Neath and, apparently, Mumbo’s writing. He climbed back down the ladder and went back to his bedroom where he’d inevitably fall asleep again. Still, he was sure that this time he’d wake up before Grian.


	23. In which a discovery of momentous importance is made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grian immerses himself in the case and arrives at a conclusion that will change London forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING!!! MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE JACK OF SMILES CASE!!! I paraphrased a lot of stuff and the original writing is FAR better than this, but the outcome is the same. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.  
> Also yeah this chapter is a lot of telling and not showing but this thing is long enough already. I might come back later and actually write out some of the stuff but I REALLY need to get this thing done. The next bit I had to rewrite entirely and I'm still editing it so it might take a while to come out. With all that out of the way, enjoy!

In the next few weeks, Grian threw himself into his work. He went out every day and traced the transport of the knives through three rookeries, a group of dockers, and a peddler of fine crockery. Eventually he discovered that the knives were consistently paid for in honey. As soon as he knew that, all he had to do was trace where the honey had come from instead.

This was easier said than done. A group of dockers that met Grian through Cleo didn’t know much about the honey itself, but they knew someone who had some. This sent Grian on a whole separate chase through the honey-dens of London, grilling dreamers still mazed with the stuff.

Apparently, the honey was good quality.  _ Extremely  _ good quality. A pearl-draped heiress with her head in the clouds let Grian try a drop of the stuff that whirled him away to the best honey-dream he’d ever had, and he wasn’t usually one for dreaming. But that is a story for another day.

Eventually he bribed a honey-den owner for an empty jar to study. He was mainly interested in the label, but if that didn’t help he could always find whoever was making the jars.

It was late at night when he got home, exhausted from a day of arguing with belligerent honey-addicts.Mumbo had already gone to bed, and Grian tried his best to stay quiet as he ruffled through disorganized stacks of notes for his definitive list of names. He found it under a creased pile of mostly blank paper and snatched it up triumphantly. He smoothed it out on his desk and held it up to the jar.

Grian looked at the label.

He blinked slowly.

“No,” he whispered. “It  _ can’t  _ be.” The darkened room seemed to spin as he stared down at the jar in his hand. He dropped his list, not even needing to look at it.

The workshop at Polythreme. The knives. All those deaths. Everything.

_ From the Private Stock of Mr Spices, Master of the Bazaar. _

* * *

Grian didn’t go to bed. Instead, he carefully picked up every sheet of paper around the room and stacked them neatly on his desk. The poor original ledger only had a few pages left in it, the rest having been frantically torn out. Grian replaced them as best as he could and even swept the rumpled green rug.

He sat down on the couch and stared out the window into the darkness. He couldn’t even see the building across the street in the gloom.

The Masters had more power than the mayor, than the Traitor Empress, than anyone. They controlled commerce and had a steady influence on London politics.

_ Why had they made the Jacks? _

Mr Spices was self described as the ‘the only reliable source for dreams,’ as well as the obvious cinnamon, honey, and other spices. What was its motive in creating Jack? Grian didn’t know enough about the Masters to even speculate.

“Grian? Have you been up all night?”

Grian turned slightly to see a sleep-ruffled Mumbo staring at him with a concerned expression. “Oh, is it morning already?” Grian mumbled, glancing out the window to see the electric street lamps flickering on. “Well, look at that.”

“Did you not get any sleep?” Mumbo asked worriedly.

Grian shrugged. “Not really.” He avoided Mumbo’s eyes. “I know who made the Jacks.”

Mumbo’s eyes widened and he quickly sat down across from Grian, leaning forwards expectantly. “Really? Who?”

“Mr Spices,” Grian said bleakly.

Mumbo nearly fell off his chair. “Pardon?”

“Mr Spices, Master of the Bazaar, purveyor of spices, sweet smokes, and honey,” Grian listed.

“No, no, I heard you,” Mumbo spluttered. “I just-- _ what? _ Why? How? _ ” _

“I can answer one of those questions,” Grian said, pointing to the jar on his desk. “Got a label from someone who runs a honey den. Honey matches the stuff that paid for the knives. It’s from its personal store.”

Mumbo stood up. He sat back down again. He blinked several times in rapid succession. “What are we going to do?” he asked weakly.

Grian shrugged. “What can we do? We have to give Iskall  _ some  _ sort of answer, and we can’t leave London to be plagued by sentient murder-knives until the next city falls.”

“So, are we going to confront it?” Mumbo asked.

Grian exhaled, long and hard. “I don’t see what other choice we have,” he said slowly. “I mean, on my bucket list, confronting Mr Spices for crimes its committed is between getting eaten by a heptycheer and running up and down Spite stark naked yelling ‘norf norf squeeg,’ but how else will we get any closure for this?”

Mumbo didn’t mention the fact that the term ‘bucket list’ wouldn’t be coined for at least a hundred years by a movie of the same name. Instead, he only blinked. “If you really think there’s nothing else we can do, I’ll go get dressed and grab my notes. We might as well go with proof,” Mumbo said, standing.

“Wait, are we going now?” Grian asked, sitting bolt upright.

“Well, yes, unless you have other arrangements--” Mumbo started.

A strange haze clouded Grian’s eyes. His face broke out in an immense, crazed grin.  _ “I have to go change my clothes,” _ he whispered, and was off like a shot to his room.


	24. In which there is a meeting of great importance with an individual who has consumed lethal amounts of coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our two protagonists meet with a high-ranking individual in London and learn of the original purpose of Jack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN ADDITIONAL DEFINITION:  
> Irrigo: One of the seven colors of the Neathbow, the color of forgetting.  
> ALSO: !!!SUPER MEGA SPOILERS FOR SOME FALLEN LONDON THINGS!!! read at ur own risk--oh who am I kidding. if you've made it this far you don't care.  
> Happy reading!

It took them about a half an hour to actually leave their rooms because Grian kept fussing about what he was going to wear. “I have to make a good impression,” he said emphatically as he tossed aside yet another perfectly tailored frock coat.

“My word,” Mumbo muttered. “Where did you even get all this?”

“Years of collection,” Grian said. “We all have hobbies.” He held two ascots up to his throat. “Which do you think matches better?”

“The white one,” Mumbo said, barely glancing at them. He himself was wearing his best tailcoat and top hat, having not needed to give it any thought at all.

“Are you sure? The striped one is higher quality--”

“Grian,” Mumbo said, and Grian looked up with a furrowed brow. “It’s  _ fine.  _ If we were going to see, say, Mr Veils I’d think we should be marginally more worried, but I don’t think our apparel is going to affect the fact that we’re accusing it of  _ mass murder.” _

“That’s exactly why we should be worried!” Grian said, throwing his hands up in the air. “We need to make a good first impression!”

Mumbo snatched Grian’s sleeve and dragged him out of his bedroom, ignoring all protest. Grian just managed to snag a hat off the coat rack and they finally made it out onto the street. Mumbo triple checked he had his notebook and gun as Grian indignantly smoothed his rumpled coat.

“I shouldn’t have grabbed the derby,” he muttered, turning to go back inside, but Mumbo caught his wrist and gave him a look that made Grian wither.

“We are going unannounced to a meeting with one of the pinnacles of London’s economy. If we even get through the damn door,  _ it won’t care what hat you’re wearing.” _

Grian’s mouth twisted but he pulled his arm away and locked the door behind them.

They found the address without issue, a large office building near the heart of Veilgarden. The lobby was lavishly furnished, and Scar Goodman himself had just exited the only other door.

“You’re here to see Mr Spices,” he said before Grian could even open his mouth. “Its been expecting you. Go down the hall and to the left.”

Grian blinked, startled. “Thank you,” he said. Scar tipped his hat gravely and strode past them to the door.

“He didn’t have to look at us as though we were taking our last trip on the river,” Mumbo hissed to Grian as they walked down the hall. The look Grian gave him in response was less than comforting.

They reached the door.

“Ready?” Grian asked.

“Not at all,” Mumbo said truthfully.

“Me either,” Grian replied, taking a deep breath. He knocked gently on the door and began to wring his scarf in his hands.

“Come in,” a surprisingly human voice said. Grian opened the door and, after a brief scuffle with Mumbo about who would enter first, tripped into a nicely furnished study.

“You!” Grian said, shocked.

“Me,” Bernard Cumberland said mildly, for that was who sat behind the large desk in the middle of the room. “Won’t you two take a seat?” He gestured to two chairs in front of the desk.

“I don’t parley with the likes of you,” Grian hissed. “Come on, Mumbo, let’s go.”

“No,” Mumbo said forcefully. “Isn’t this better than Spices itself? It’s strictly a matter of business, and we have the power here. Sit  _ down _ .”

Grian sat. He was obviously, truly unhappy about it, but he sat.

Cub was unperturbed by the dispute. Mumbo noticed he had bruiselike dark circles under his heavy lidded eyes and his hands shook even as they were clasped in front of him.

So this was the indefatigable businessman himself. Mumbo thought he would be afraid or at least nervous in the presence of the other half of the Vexation, but Cub just looked...tired.

“I am standing in for Mr Spices today,” Cub said, indicating the MR SPICES nameplate on the desk. “It has left you a message and regrets that it cannot meet you in person.”

“Sure it does,” Grian muttered, and Mumbo elbowed him.

Cub ignored him and slipped on a pair of gold, half moon reading glasses and unfolded a crisp sheet of paper in front of him. “‘The Vexation recently saw you at the workshop in Polythreme. Hubristic and most regrettable. You show an appetite for secrets, and so we shall give you your fill and you will respect our wishes of discretion. If not...well, both of us know where that particular road leaves.’”

Cub looked at the two of them over his glasses and Mumbo shuddered slightly. Despite the man’s obvious exhaustion, he had a confident, intimidating air about him that more than made up for it. Cub cleared his throat and continued.

“‘The Bazaar desires stories of love. It has...needs, of a sort.” Mumbo flashed back to that night months ago, sharing secrets with the cats. “‘It is our duty to satiate these needs. So we created this entity, this Jack-of-Smiles, using the first customer’s lover’s vitality. What inspires love like the threat of death? Such was our misguided thinking at the time. It was an experiment, and a failed one. We have since discovered that the Bazaar does nor respond well to such artificial stories. Still, it has positively affected the press and your literature, so we have moved the workshop. Jack lives another day. Do not return here.’” Cub folded the piece of paper and placed it back neatly on the desk. “Any questions?”

Grian and Mumbo looked at each other in varying levels of shock.

Cub sighed. “I know it’s a lot to take in. I suggest not naming Mr Spices when you inevitably report back to your constable-in-a-pocket. Use a pseudonym or just have it be an unnamed businessman, maybe from the Khanate. Every Londoner hates the Khaganians.”

“Well, what do  _ you _ think about all this?” Grian challenged. “You seem to be taking all of this in stride.”

Cub tipped his head sadly. “I don’t get the option to have an opinion. I’ll be dosed with irrigo after this meeting. For privacy reasons, of course.”

Grian raised his eyebrows in shock. “That’s…terrible. Cub, are you okay?”

“Oh, most definitely not, but it’s nothing another cup of darkdrop won’t fix.” Cub gave them a weak smile. “In any case, that’s no concern of yours. Do you have anything else to say?”

“Can you relay any messages back to Mr Spices?” Mumbo asked without much hope.

Cub shook his head. “Unfortunately I cannot. He has most likely expected your reaction and he will be watching the press. Do be careful.”

“Yeah, sure,” Grian muttered.

Cub spread his hands on the desk. “You two must have other engagements. I bid you good day, sirs.” He was very clearly trying to get rid of the two of them, and both Grian and Mumbo were keen to oblige. They gave their thanks and made a hasty retreat, both of their minds whirling with secrets.


	25. In which fame begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iskall is informed of the full situation and makes a statement to the public.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi sorry for midnight update im just losing my mind over the dreamsmp war don't mind me  
> anyway we are two or three chapters away from the End! the Completion! the Freedom for Zain!
> 
> Enjoy!

“What are we going to do?” Mumbo asked once they’d gotten home, pacing the small room. Grian lay face down on his thinking-couch, his hat lying forlornly on the floor next to him.

“I. Don’t.  _ Know,  _ Mumbo,” Grian said, muffled by the couch cushion. “We can’t let people keep dying, but you remember how you were, erm, apprehensive about butting heads with ConCorp? This is the bloody  _ Masters  _ of the bloody  _ Bazaar.” _

“I know, I know,” Mumbo said exasperatedly. “But we still need to do  _ something  _ about the Jacks.”

Grian peeked out at Mumbo from the pillow. “That’s not a very Mumbo sentiment. Who are you and what have you done with Mumbo Jumbo?”

Mumbo grinned. “I suddenly feel a strange urge to consume candles…”

Grian snickered. “Remove that face immediately, Snuffer!” he joked, and they both collapsed into giggles.

“On a serious note, we do need to tell Iskall something,” Mumbo said once they’d sobered up.

Grian sat up and shrugged. “It’s that or wash our hands of this. Iskall already knows about the knives, he just doesn’t know the extent of everything.”

“Doesn’t he deserve to?” Mumbo asked. “No one hired you to do this, what’s the point of keeping this information to yourself.”

“Power,” Grian said. “Simply knowing. Mr Spices doesn’t want this printed anyway, you heard Cub.”

“Yes, but he gave an alternative should we make a public statement,” Mumbo said emphatically. “Just think--your name in the newspapers, ‘Detective Solves Jack-of-Smiles Case.’ Plus, don’t the families of the Jacks and the victims deserve to know?”

“Never been one for the tabloids, and if they want to know, they can ask,” Grian said airily, laying back down. “It’ll save us the trip.”

“Get your coat,” Mumbo said firmly. “We’re telling Iskall.”

Grian raised an eyebrow. “Who died and made you captain of this ship?” he muttered, but did as Mumbo said.

Iskall was tensely reading a letter when they arrived and nearly flew across his office to open the door when they knocked.

“Did you do it? Did you get Jack?” he asked without even greeting them, his eyes wide as saucers.

Grian took a deep breath and nodded. Iskall glanced down the hallways and hurriedly ushered the two of them into his office.

* * *

Iskall sat silently for a few minutes after Grian finished explaining, with the help of occasional interjections from Mumbo.

“So--” Grian started but Iskall held up a hand.

“Give me a couple minutes,” he pleaded. He was blinking rapidly, taking off his strange monocle and polishing it on his shirt many more times than necessary. He stared into the middle distance, brow furrowed. “So Jack was...a ruse?” he asked weakly after a long silence.

“Did you miss the bit about Jacks being fabricated to strike fear into the hearts of lovers for stories for the Bazaar?” Grian asked.

Iskall scrunched up his face as though he was in pain. “Nope, didn’t miss that part.”

“What about the part where Mr Spices itself told us to keep out of its business?” Mumbo added helpfully.

“Didn’t miss that either,” Iskall groaned, ducking his head into his hands. “You lads have had a rough time of it, haven’t you?”

Grian and Mumbo exchanged a glance. “No shit, Sherlock,” Grian muttered, and Mumbo almost asked who Sherlock was but decided against it.

“People have to know about this,” Mumbo said. “We can’t just let the Jacks continue circulating and get more people killed. And we have to be prepared for new ones entering London.”

Iskall sighed and nodded gravely. “I’ll prepare an abridged statement. The pencil-pushers got ahold of the fact that somebody was after Jack and they’ve been breaking down my door ever since. It’ll be so nice to get them off my back for a while. Pix and Zloy from  _ The Weekly Recapitulation  _ have been merciless.”

“Haven’t heard of that one,” Grian said thoughtfully. “Is it any good?”

Iskall shrugged. “Not bad enough to wrap fish in,” he said. “But not good enough to warrant my time usually.”

“I’ll have to give them an interview,” Grian muttered and Mumbo shot him an incredulous glance. “In any case, we need to come up with a few strategies. For a start, you should instruct your boys to take special interest towards the weapons used in any confirmed or suspected Jack murders,” Grian said.

“Tongs!” Iskall cried. “We’ll give them tongs to handle the knives and have a special squad just to subdue Jacks!”

Mumbo nodded. “And you should definitely destroy all the ones you already have.”

“I’ll see to it personally,” Iskall said. “We’ll smash ‘em to bits and burn ‘em up. That should do the little buggers in right well enough.”

“That should work,” Grian said thoughtfully. “But we might have to do some testing. Perhaps acid could work as well?”

Iskall furrowed his brow. “If we can get our hands on it, sure. But--”

“Joe’s a university academic,” Mumbo burst out. He continued despite Grian’s irritated expression. “I could ask him if he could get some from the Chemistry Department.”

Grian opened his mouth to protest but Iskall was nodding approvingly. “Fine,” Grian grumbled. “As long as I don’t have to deal with him.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Iskall said. “Is there anything you want me to say in the statement? You won’t be kept anonymous, I’m afraid. It’s simply not possible. Some paper will catch wind of it no matter what, so it’s better to be forward about it.”

“All the better,” Grian said with a grin. “I’ll be wanting credit for solving the greatest mystery of the century. Don’t mention anything about Spices. I don’t think it would be at all happy to be mentioned.”

“Of course,” Iskall said. “I’ll get right to it, then. You both might want to take cover. The press will be on your tails faster than a rat.”

Mumbo was not happy to hear that but Grian looked positively gleeful. Iskall let them leave out a back entrance and promised to give his statement within the hour.

The walk from Concord Square to Moloch Street was a long one, and news travelled fast. On the street right before the old bookshop, Grian caught an urchin trailing them. The boy’s nose was running and his face was grimy, but his grey eyes were fixated on the two of them.

“Can I help you?” Grian asked, raising an eyebrow.

“‘Scuze me, sir. It’s just…’ow’d you do it? ‘Ow’d you get Jack?” he asked, eyes wide.

Grian grinned. “Well, it all started with a courier. A friend of mine works in the post industry…” And he began to regale the urchin with the whole story of Jack. By the time Biffa was mentioned, a small crowd had formed. Mumbo had quietly moved away, trying to keep an eye on Grian without being pushed around. When Grian began telling them about Polythreme, the hordes had stopped traffic on Moloch Street and someone had given him a crate to stand on. Mumbo was caught up in the throngs of people, unable to even hear what Grian was saying anymore as he struggled to escape.

The people around him began to cheer and Mumbo rolled his eyes. He watched as the crowd lifted Grian onto their shoulders and began to parade him down towards Ladybones Road. Mumbo finally escaped the mob and headed home to the safety and quiet of the bookshop, correctly assuming Grian wouldn’t be home for dinner. He returned hours later without a hat and with wind-tousled hair, grinning like a child on Christmas Day.

“You should have stayed!” he said breathlessly. “They would have loved you!”

Mumbo wrinkled his nose. “Being manhandled down the streets by a mob of people does not sound like a good time,” he sniffed.

“You are immeasurably boring,” Grian said. “I’m heading to bed. That was  _ exhausting.” _

“My point exactly,” Mumbo said under his breath.


	26. In which witty banter occurs and our story is concluded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes return to everyday life as Christmas fast approaches, and Mumbo picks up a new hobby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the last chapter, everybody! I really could have expanded this as much as the previous chapter, but I really wanted to get this completed. No particular warnings, enjoy!

In the next few days there was a constant whirlwind of activity and attention around Mumbo and Grian. There were parties. Interviews. Dinners. Salons. Speeches. Salutes, curtsies, and tipped hats on the streets. Letters of all kinds, declarations of gratitude and admiration and love and all manner of things. They’d even erected a statue of Grian! Admittedly the statue was in a small, quiet square, but it was a statue nonetheless. Mumbo was miffed that he was only an afterthought on the plaque beneath it, but he didn’t necessarily want any more attention than he was already garnering.

Grian, on the other hand, basked in the attention. He gave demonstrations at the University, describing exactly how he solved the case without a single embellishment, no siree. At least, that’s what the enormous posters promised.

Luckily, London’s memory was short. Mumbo knew this. For today it loved them, but tomorrow they would be an afterthought.

And by God, tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

Blessedly, the days eventually returned to normal, as normal as they could be for two men living in the Neath who’d just solved a twenty-year-old case of a body-swapping serial killer. Grian didn’t take on any new cases, content to piece together the loose ends of the Jack caes. Mumbo began work on a full account of the case, but was often distracted by several hobbies including mechanics and dabbling in the Correspondence. He’d begun to realize that writing probably wasn’t his calling, but he wasn’t sure what was.

Mr Sacks had begun its rounds as Christmas was fast approaching, and though Grian loved the season he was rarely awake for the actual arrival of the…no one actually thought Mr Sacks was a man, did they?

“Has Mr Sacks been around today?” Grian asked late one morning, yawning. Mumbo nodded, pointing to a folded scrap of darkest fabric. Bombazine. “Lovely. Take that down to Merrigan’s and sell it when you can, would you?”

“It’s on my to-do list,” Mumbo said, handing Grian a cup of darkdrop coffee.

“Mm...wake-juice…” Grian mumbled, cradling the mug in his hands.

“I still don’t see how you can drink that stuff,” Mumbo said, wrinkling his nose. “It’s bitterer than engine oil.”

“At least I take mine with sugar,” Grian said through another yawn. “Cub drinks the stuff like water, straight from the pot.”

“Disgusting,” Mumbo said. “Explains why he never seems to sleep, though.”

Grian shrugged. “Seems like a good idea, honestly. You get more hours in the day and everything. I should try drinking nothing but coffee for a week.”

“You’d send yourself to the river by the third day,” Mumbo said matter-of-factly.

“Probably,” Grian admitted. “But it sure would be a Hell of a week.”

“More of a Hell of a week than Polythreme?”

“That was more like a Hell of a month,” Grian said. “And it was crazier than anything coffee or prisoner’s honey could come up with.” He sniffed the air sharply. “Mumbo, have you burnt the tea again?”

“I’ve never burnt tea,” Mumbo scoffed, but Grian followed his worried glance to the corner of the room that held Mumbo’s writing-desk-turned-workbench. The walls were scorched with a star shaped pattern and the molten remains of several lead sheets were barely contained in a ceramic crucible.

“Oh, not again,” Grian groaned.

“It was an accident!” Mumbo protested, guiltily hiding his sooty hands and blackened sleeves behind his back.

“You  _ accidentally _ started working with the Correspondence again? And charred the wallpaper even  _ more?”  _ Grian let out a deep sign “That’s gonna cost us to fix.”

“‘Us?’” Mumbo asked, raising a slightly singed eyebrow.

“Yes, us. I’ve been actually pulling in a profit lately, if you’d forgotten,” Grian said, rolling his eyes and draining the last of his coffee.

Mumbo snickered. “Oh, you mean the penny dreadfuls licensing your name and image? Those won’t bring in much. You do know they’re called  _ penny  _ dreadfuls, and that’s without the publishing charges.”

“And is that what you’re writing? A penny dreadful?” Grian asked, glancing pointedly at the side of Mumbo’s desk that was still for writing.

Mumbo drew himself up to his full height. “I’ll have you know it’s the most accurate version of the events leading to and including the discovery of Jack’s identity,” he said indignantly.

Grian grinned. “Yes, yes, of course. That’s why it’s only two pages.”

“I’m  _ working  _ on it!”

“You’d finish it quicker if you didn’t mess around so much with words that burned.”

Mumbo groaned. “Just go get dressed, you ratbag.”

“Where’re we going?” Grian complained. “It’s my day off.”

“Out,” Mumbo said curtly.

“Oh, goody,” Grian said. “My favorite place to go. I guess I should break in this new pair of shoes anyway…”

Mumbo rolled his eyes but Grian did manage to get dressed, and within fifteen minutes they had made it out onto the street.

Grian was much more energized and bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. Evidently the coffee was working. “Well, Mumbo?” he asked, quirking a smile.

Mumbo smiled. “London awaits!” he crowed.

Grian whooped and the two of them raced off down Moloch street, laughing together like schoolboys, dodging cabs, and startling pedestrians.

The Neath was a dangerous place, certainly. But in that moment there was nowhere else in the world Mumbo would rather be than running down the savage cobbles at his friend’s side, searching for adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all SO SO much for reading! Huge thanks to iamsolarflare for writing Kakujo, Blue and Xeno for letting me bounce ideas off them, Sara for making AMAZING art, the entire 77-2 server for being so supportive(and a lot of you are getting into Fallen London because of Solar and me which is amazing), and all you readers and commenters and kudo-ers for keeping up with this passion project of mine!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In The Underground (or "The Life and Times of the Laid-back Larcenist")](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28777131) by [mathonwys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mathonwys/pseuds/mathonwys)




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